Reflections: Mitigating Mark's Mind
by TLRAMP
Summary: RENT-fic numero tres! ;-) Can ya believe it? It's longer (in word count) than my first epic fic! I just upped the rating (again) to R, since I use too many curse words to count and it gets steamy. I am --this-- close to being done.
1. Where Did My Friends Go?

Reflections: A RENT-fic

**Reflections:** A RENT-fic

Mitigating Mark's Mind

**** Once again, as always, all characters belong to Jonathan Larson – the man behind the legend.****

CHAPTER I: **Where Did My Friends Go?**

"Pan across the empty room – vacant for three days so far. Since Mimi died and Roger took off, this place has been a solace for only myself and no one else, leading me to extreme lows. But, does that really matter? No, nothing matters about Mark Cohen. Not a thing…"

I've been sitting here, filming absentmindedly for hours now. The battery of my camera must be at an all-time low, but I don't really care. If it runs out of film – oh well. What if I run out of things to say? Yeah, like that'll happen.

Why do I sit here all alone, thinking about everything that's wrong in my life? I'm a filmmaker – that's what I do. I sit and dissect every minor detail of every minor aspect of a minor life and piece it back together like a Picasso painting, distorting the original qualities until it's my own – in other words, I look at things until they blur in my lens. I've always been that way, I guess. Even when I was a little kid, I'd take my mother's camera apart and fix the mirror so that when she went to take a picture, the vision before her was upside-down. It was hilarious for the two minutes she tried different angles and places to stand, but when my father heard of it…well, let's just say it wasn't so funny to him….

I digress. My father's always been that way – he never laughed, never smiled, never joked, and never once took me outside to play catch, shoot hoops, or practice my tackling abilities. He was always distant and untouchable – a figure to be reckoned with, but never to be talked to. My mother was scared of him, at times, although I've never figured out why. He was like some giant creature that would reek havoc on our pure diminutive minds if we so much as spoke out of turn, so we never did; and nothing bad happened. It was almost as if we simply _knew_ what he would do without him ever having to do it. The sad thing is, he's always like that. That's why I don't go home or call anymore. I'm afraid he'll pick up the phone, and that baritone voice will ring out in my ears with it's harsh tone, saying, "Yeah?" It hurts my ears to think of that booming voice – so deep and low that it's more of a grumble than a tone of voice. When he asks a question, he's not really asking – he's telling, so you'd better do it; or else. Or else what? I never stuck around long enough to figure that out.

But, back to the point at hand (if there is such a thing with me): when I was young, I was the same way as I am now. I would always find myself drawing pictures, writing stories, and being that one nerdy kid who never quite fit in. When I met Roger, all things changed. That scrawny little child I was then, I still was when I met Roger, but something about him changed something about me. I felt like I finally fit in, and when he took me to a strip club for my 16th birthday (along with a fake ID that said I was a 26 year old named Juan DeLayo), I could have cried – but he always berated my strong emotions. At any rate, he changed me from my usual habits and – for what's it's worth, though he won't admit it – he made me who I am today. Before I met him, I was – if you can imagine it – more withdrawn and naïve than I am now. I was always the teacher's pet, staying after class for extra credit; helped out at every pep assembly with decorations, handing out flyers, and I even spent a year wearing our mascot's (Victor The Viking…. Oh God, don't ask!) uniform. After we became friends, I quit the Sophomore Class, quit the A+ Program, stopped hanging out with teachers and started hanging out with street kids, and quit the chess club. I know, I was a nerd, right? But, sometimes I think I had more fun with the "geeky" kids than I did with the "popular" ones. Mainstream crowds always get me nervous, anyway. But, I loved hanging out with Roger from the first moment we met…. Oh, I haven't explained that yet, have I? We met, purely by accident, according to my clumsiness, to which I owe all life's unexpected pleasures. I was filming a short documentary for the film club at our high school and was walking through the halls, unconscious as always in my ponderings, and I ran smack (head-first of course) into the door of Mr. Mueller's Language Arts classroom. It sent me reeling and I blacked out for a half hour. When I awoke, I found myself in the nurse's office with a beautiful woman leaning over me, her breasts concealed tightly in a white blouse that I remember distinctly (hell, how could I forget?). She held a thermometer in her lithe fingers, and I recall wondering where the hell I was – perhaps in Wonderland or somewhere as equally grand (how innocent I was!). At any rate, when she left the room to go back into the main nurse's office (for the back room was kept for five beds, each for a different patient), I found myself in the company of the juvenile delinquent known as Roger Davis. As I sat and took notice of him taking notice of me, I shrank away almost immediately, preparing to bolt forth from the room. However, before I could do such a rational thing as that, he spoke. 

"Whatcha doin' in here?" he asked quietly, almost as if he addressed himself, but since he gawked quite openly at me, I could only assume he meant to talk to me. 

"I-I hit my head 'cause I walked into an opening door," I replied, stuttering my words out and studying him carefully. 

"Shit, that must've hurt," he replied just as quietly, accompanied this time by a laugh or two at my stupidity (I presume) as he extended his hand. "I'm Roger."

I smiled my dorky smile, shaking his hand heartily, as if he'd been a brother. "I know who you are. I've seen you around school a few times – I mean, I take notice of just about everything that goes on around here and I saw you at a few pep assemblies – that is, I saw you while I was surveying the audience's reaction – 'cause I film, you see, and you just happened to be in the shot a few times – but, you were also in a bunch of school shots in general, 'cause you seem to be around a lot of the bigger social gatherings that go on here and –"

He chuckled to himself, taking his hand away quickly, raising a brow. "Don't you ever shut up, kid?"

I blushed – I blush easily – and lowered my face, fearful to say more. So, I just nodded a little and brushed back my long red hair, which was, at that time, to my ears and parted down the right side, flipping over my forehead like a wave in the ocean sea (kind of like that perverted kid from _Adventures In Babysitting_ – what a classic film!). I felt his eyes still on me, and so I met his gaze with alarm in my bright blue eyes.

"What's the matter, kid?" he asked with a smirk. "Can't take a joke? Y'know, I was only kiddin' ya. Not that I want to hear you ramble on while I try to get out of 5th period gym class, but I don't wanna discourage you."

I nodded, shrugging as my cheeks rose, squishing my thin eyes into a squint. "No problemo," I said, trying to act cool. This was, after all, _the_ Roger Davis. The Roger Davis who'd successfully gone out with five girls at once (who all knew about the other, but didn't want to give him up for anything). The Roger Davis who was in The Forsaken band that played for every pep assembly, at nightclubs on the weekends (even though all of them were underage), and at hotels every summer. The Roger Davis who once glued the principal's furniture to the ceiling and let loose 25 donkeys in the B-building lobby.

He grinned, peering outside the door at the nurse. "She's pretty hot, huh?"

I felt my red face grow crimson with delight. "Yeah."

His grin widened at my reaction, but he swiftly dismissed whatever thoughts he'd wanted to convey. "Wanna split outta here?"

"What?" I asked, genuinely surprised in all my youthful exuberance.

He slipped off the cot and moved to lean over me, opening the window that was there, grinning as he sat beside me on the bed. "Wanna split? C'mon, let's get outta here."

"What about school...?" Dumb question!

He threw his head back in silent laughter and tugged at my sleeve. "It's a good thing I've found you, kid. You're screwed already by the system."

"I'm…what?"

He rolled his eyes, punching my arm before leaping for the window, slipping out effectively. He looked back in and held out his hand. "C'mon, kid."

I grinned, finding something very exciting and dreadfully romantic (like all those adventure stories like Tom Sawyer, where the two best friends went to find escapades for their mischief) about ditching school for something cool and innovative. I was genuinely thrilled at the prospect of it all, and so I took his hand and squirmed my way out the thin window. 

After that day, the two of us were inseparable. We became best friends swiftly. It was like whenever we needed someone the other was always around. He taught me so many things – how to successfully skip school, for example. And, I tried to teach him things too and succeeded once or twice – like when I taught him how to open up to people. That was a great talk we had that night…. I remember he held nothing back from me, and we just sat up the whole night, talking about how his parents tried to control his life and his only refuge was sex, drugs, and rock and roll. We talked about my problems and my fear of people in general. I explained to him about the paranoid disease of mine – known as social phobia (or maybe you know it as social anxiety disorder). He's the one who helped me overcome that fear and lighten up a lot. Unfortunately, I think he gained some of that horrible mind problem from me, because, later in life, when April died, he went into a relapse that lasted way too long for his own good. But, I did finally overcome my disorder, which is seldom heard of with that disease. Of course, I still have moments where it comes back at full force. In fact, my hiding behind this camera right now is part of that problem. I think that if I cower behind this flimsy machine of mine that I won't have to experience life as it really is; instead, I can take things apart like and put them in any sequenced order I want. So, I guess I'm not cured completely, but it's better than nothing.

Now I'm getting to the part in my memory where I recall my first meeting with April May August. What a name, huh? Her parents were washed out hippies who believed that what you named you child reflected who they would become. I guess they thought she'd become a sideshow freak. (Insert some friendly chuckles here) Most people just called her April, and most had forgotten she even had a last name. It was always just April. When I first met her, she was crude and outspoken. She marched right up to me, pushed the camera out of my face and said, "Why do you always film people, Marcus?" She always called me Marcus 'cause she knew I despised that. When I was confronted with her, I was stunned into silence. Being then friends with Roger, I knew people had begun to know who I was around school, but to see this beautiful woman – for I believed she was not a girl; no girl had _that_ body! – coming straight up to me and conversing with me: that was too much. She wore a pair of tight brown leather pants and a shirt that didn't leave much to be desired. Her hair was down to the small of her back, and it was a luscious crimson with hints of blonde highlights strewn about. We kind of matched, hairstyle-wise. Her makeup was loud, but at the same time extremely feminine. She had this amazing way of pulling off whatever style she wanted to. That day, it was futuristic and thriving. And damn did it do a number on my innocent little hormones! A few days later, Roger and April were a couple, and from then on they were as joined at the hip as we were. Some nights, we'd all three get together and go out to party. I remember distinctly our most exciting outing was at this little nightclub called The Blue Lagoon. Both Roger and April somehow convinced me that filming was not an option tonight, and so I went without it. How unfortunate, too, 'cause I would pay money to have that night on film! That was the night I met Maureen Johnson.

I was about 18 years old then and nearly finished with high school. Roger made me into a regular Fonzie for the night (not that I really did look so cool in his leather jacket that slid off my shoulders whenever I moved and basically swallowed my tiny form in its cloth) and I walked in with that same fake ID, saying I – Juan DeLayo – was still 26. As I strutted inside the deteriorating building, I felt so cool. Roger and April had made it a plan to get me laid that night, and I can tell you, I was looking forward to that! When I saw the girl at the bar, taking shots like there was no tomorrow, something inside me gave way and I was instantly drawn to her. With Roger's help – which came in the form of a shove that sent me tumbling into the object of my affection – I got to speak with the girl whom I found myself pulled towards like a magnet. When I got around to talking to her, I felt alive finally and let myself go. I don't remember too much else about that night except the vodka and liquor swirling around in my stomach, eventually exploding onto someone's shoes, causing a great many laughs at my expense from Roger and April. At any rate, Maureen and I were soon an item. She went to another school nearby and was graduating soon as I was.

Ah, memories… Can't live with 'em – can't get the hell rid of 'em!

I'm not even sure what brought on this whole reverie into my past…. I think it's because Mimi's dead and Collins is fading fast. The fact that Roger isn't here and Benny's demanding the rent and I'm broke – those don't help either. I think my mother was right (what an awful conclusion to finally come to!) when she said, "Don't go off to NYC, honey. You'll never make it out there on your own." Well, mom, you were right! I'm a failure. Proud?

Okay, back to the reminiscences….

As I had said, Maureen and I were soon together and boy do I mean _together_ in every fuckin' sense of the word. We hung out every free minute, sometimes without Roger and April. Those moments I have to admit I was thankful for, at the time. Why? 'Cause that's when we'd "get it on". Ha! That's what I used to call it, too. I thought I was so suave my first time…. How sick I feel now thinking that my first time was with a potential lesbian. It's not the way I'd like to remember my first time, but who ever has a great first time? I mean, Roger's first time was with a friend of his mother – how disturbing is that? I'm glad April more-or-less straightened him out of that wild style. I must admit that after they became an item, Roger was more attentive and less interested in getting laid every night. He basically fell in love. And me? I'm not sure it was love that I was in with Maureen – more like lust. But, damn she was fine! You'd be interested too, if you'd have known her then…or now. Yeah, I still have a little thing for her, but Joanne's pretty possessive, so I don't even bother to try anymore.

Around this time, I met the man who would later be my mortal enemy – Benjamin Coffin III. Of course, we'd always call him Benny just to piss him off, 'cause his family was primp and proper and didn't like Roger and me at all. In fact, I bet at one time or another, his father had a restraining order out on the gang. Not that we'd care, but it's still useful to note.

Benny and I had had a few classes together throughout high school, but we never really were on the same wavelengths. He'd be talking about the hottest new style of music out (back then, I believe he was obsessed with Styx, though I have no clue why) and I'd be discussing film etiquette. But, we both ended up taking a mass media course together our senior year of high school, and we became close friends during that period. We'd do all our projects together and hang out at lunch. I introduced him to Roger and April (and later, Maureen) and soon we were all one big happy family. Well, almost…. You see, Benny was very much involved with a girl in her sophomore year of college (at Adelphi, nonetheless), and none of us liked her at all. Her name was Allison Grey. I only met her once, but that was quite enough. The girl was a prep if I ever saw one! The moment she saw me, she recoiled and nearly fainted from shock. It was all Benny could do to beg her to stay and give us a chance. Even then, she was sobbing and crying, and just plain being a mess of runny mascara and clumping eye shadow. After that night, none of us ever saw her again. Turns out that her father runs some kind of high-tech studio and doesn't mess around with "riff-raff". Hm, that's a step up from some of the lengthier names we've been called. 

At any rate, Benny and I still hung out together with Roger, April, and Maureen. Our little loving family was growing steadily.

"Mark?"

"Huh?"

"You're not still filming are you?"

I shrug. "Yeah, why?"  
Collins' voice rings out strong. "Don't get too involved. You're coming out with us tonight when we all go out to dinner. You'll see…."

"Who's 'we'?" I ask defensively, lowering the camera.

"Myself, Maureen, Joanne, and you."

I groan. "No flow."

He comes out from the backroom, carrying a knapsack of money. "I got dough."

"Whoa!" My eyes widen as I nearly leap from the table, where I've occupied myself as of late. "You can say that again!" I check the bag, fumbling through bills. "You rob a bank?"

He grins. "Naw, stole a tank then raided the ATM on 8th street."

I nod contently. "Not bad."

"Not bad?" He shakes his head, patting my back. "You're sad. Get over Roger's absence."

"I have –"

"Not. You're absent and aloof, Mark," he says, looking at me. He holds up some bills. "Take one or two of these, and call me in the morning."

I chortle, slipping back to my seat. "They take away anxiety?"

"Si." He laughs to himself, sitting beside me. "Touché…. What's the matter today?"

"Eh?"

"Something's the matter, I can tell." He gazed at me silently. "Wanna talk?"

I sigh, turning away. "I can't talk."

He shakes his head and gets up, moving towards the door. "I'll come by later and check up on you again."

"No need," I retort. "I'm fine."

"The hell you are – you lie. Don't do anything dumb."

I hold up my middle finger triumphantly with a smirk. "What's considered dumb?"

"Seriously, Mark…."

"I know…."

"Be back later."

"Bye."

Shit, where was I? Oh, yeah, I was thinking about our little family. You see, we called it a family, because that's what it was. No matter what any one of us was going through, the others were always there to lend a hand or two. It was the whole "all for one and one for all" bullshit. Not that that matters now, since everyone seems to be doing their own thing, but I'm upset and I don't think right when I'm upset.

I turn the camera to face myself. "Zoom in on Mark, who's still in the dark…." I pause, expecting that rough, quivering voice to reply, "But, he's got great footage!" But, no reply is spoken in this silence.

As I became good friends with Benny, I met a whole new set of people. They were uptown and suave, like he was. When I hung out with them, I felt like my life meant something. Not that it didn't when I was with Roger, but it was different somehow with Benny. Benny and I made swift plans to move in together, and when I told Roger, he was quick to jump in. After that, Maureen found out and begged to move in as well. She also requested that a friend of hers stay as well. His name was Tom Collins.

Tom and I hit it off from the beginning, although under somewhat false pretenses – he thought I was gay and hit on me. Now, I've been thought of as gay before, and it never bothers me. Yeah, I know that sounds weird, but it seriously has no effect on me. Well, anyway, he did hit on me. It was during a night when I'd agreed to come over and study with him for school. He had just moved to the area for his senior year and was glad to find a friend.

As I entered his room, I got kind of an odd feeling of something wrong about the whole thing but dismissed it swiftly, since I normally get the wrong impression of people. Still, I tensed slightly as I took those first few steps into his 1970's relapse of a room. It was complete with fake grass for carpet, one of those weird hand chairs (it was purple – go figure), a broken lava-lamp (the lava didn't flow, but it lit up a little), and a tiny disco ball made from fragmented pieces of glass that it seemed he tore from his mirrors, since they were bare, which hung from the ceiling, sending bits of luminescent glitter dancing over the walls, floor, and me as I came in. I remember he sat there with this funky grin on his face, leaning back in that disturbing hand chair and letting me sit on this ruggish thing beside him. We started to study our college algebra – something so useless that I can't even remember a word of it – and our minds seemed to compliment one another. What he didn't know, I made up. I admit, what he didn't know could _possibly_, if you tried hard enough, fill a thimble. That's if you're pushing it. 

Anyhow, in the middle of our study session, we both got hungry and he offered to bring us both something from the kitchen. Since I didn't want to get up (that freaky rug thing was pretty comfortable, I must admit), that was fine with me. He returned shortly with a Coke and some cheese sandwiches, which was all the food he had in his house. Poor Tom was always a Bohemian, and since both his parents were dead, that didn't make matters any better. At that point in time, not many people cared that he was 18 and living on his own. In today's society, you'd be lucky to get out of school at 18, let alone be allowed to live without parental supervision. But, Collins somehow managed his way around the system (he knew so many ways to get around anything and everything). Well, when he came back up and sat beside me again, that odd feeling swept over me once more. He smiled at me in that Collins' manner.

"It's a lot of fun to hang out with you, Mark," he said quietly.

I nodded and sipped my Coke. "Yeah, you too. And I'm finally getting the hang of this shit." I smirked.

"I knew you would. I tend to help people with that type of stuff." He shrugged, chuckling. "I'm a genius, what can I say?"  
I nodded, picking up the math book again, readying myself to study more. "Well, I guess we should –"

"You really wanna study?" he asked quietly, almost shyly, laying a hand on my shoulder.

Suddenly, as he stared at me, I realized what was going on and burst into hysteric laughter. My new friend was hitting on me! At that point in time, being gay was relatively new to me. I'd never met anyone who was gay (wow, since that day, I've met many), but I didn't find it unusual at all, for some reason. I just knew it wasn't me.

In the midst of my laughter, I smiled kindly at him and turned to face him. "Are you gay?"

He nodded sluggishly, almost fearfully. "Shit…you're not, are you?"

"No." I had stopped laughing now, since he looked as if he were about to have a heart attack. "Hey, it's okay… No big deal." I reopened the book. "Let's get back to the wonderful world of math and forget about that."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw those white teeth of his situated in a gentle smile. Since that day, the smile has almost always been glued to his lips. And he never hit on me again. I'm a little glad of that, I must admit.

Well, I finally graduated from high school. On graduation day, we all (Benny, Maureen, Roger, Collins, and myself) made a pact to move in together in some cheap little Village apartment. Little did we know, no place in NYC is cheap. But, we found a place that was owned (unbeknownst to me at the time) by Mr. Grey. By this time, Benny and Allison were fiancés, planning to marry the following year. None of us were too pleased with that, but what could we do? After all, we were only "riff-raff".

I sigh, leaning back until I lay my backside against the table's cool surface, letting my head hang off the edge. The blood rushing to my head is a good feeling – it reminds me that I'm alive, which is something I need now and then. My thoughts wander now to Roger…. Where the hell is he? 

I never really realized how much Roger meant to me until he left. Sure he can be as hypocritical as I am sometimes, but he's so close to me that I feel incomplete without him. It's as if he took a part of me with him to Santa Fe. Yeah, that's right: he went back to Santa Fe, thinking this time he'll actually stay there. He doesn't know the power of the gravitational force in New York – it sucks you in like a vacuum, offering you hope and courage to do the inevitable, when all it's really doing is sucking the very life from your lungs. It's a rotten shithole that I live in, but what can you do? As the saying goes, "If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere" or something equally as corny. 

Anyway, as I started to say, Roger went back to Santa Fe, trying to escape his problems yet again. Not that I completely blame him. Mimi's death was two years in the making; very prolonged and agonizing for that poor girl. I remember her last night alive….

Roger was sitting on the futon beside her weak body and she held his hand to her lips, murmuring "I should tell you" over and over again. Her eyes were bloodshot and red with streaks running down her pale cheeks from each teardrop that cascaded aimlessly every time she looked at Roger. He was crying, too, as I recall. I remember not even recognizing him then…. Roger? Crying? It couldn't be. That's how I knew things were bad. If Roger sheds a tear, there's got to be some huge problem running below the surface.

I sat in a folding chair a little ways away from them, leaving them to their privacy as much as possible without having to leave the loft completely. I watched her chest rise and fall slowly, with a lot of struggling on her part, and I saw her grabbing onto Roger's shirt, tugging him like an infant – God, she was so weak that her fragile hands trembled from that minimal effort – and trying to get him to hold her. Roger was scared – Hell, we all were! – and so he didn't know if he should pull her close or let her be cold and shiver. She begged and pleaded and apologized until he gathered her quivering form in his muscular arms, wrapping his warmth around her and whispering, "I should tell you, I should tell you…" as she'd done earlier. His voice was broken with sobs and this was when I lost it. I let my head drop and just sobbed like I was a little child. I heard their conversation – the last I'd ever hear – but couldn't see them at all through blurred tears.

"I should tell you…."

"What is it, Mimi? God…please…."

"I should tell you…."

A sniffle and sob, "Mimi! God, no! Please, just…"

"I should tell you….you know I've always…. I just need to…."

"What is it, Mimi? What?"

"I love you…."

Here, I heard him whimper and cry out, and I heard a long exhale from Mimi. "Mimi! No! Don't leave me! Oh God…. Oh God…. _Oh God_…."

That was the last I ever heard of Mimi. She died in his arms, her last words those of affection and endearment. When it came time for the funeral, Roger wasn't there. It was such a black day….

I wipe a stray tear in recalling these memories…. It's so hard sometimes to remember. I struggled with the facts, when those are the things I'd rather just forget…. This is why Roger ran – not just because of Mimi, but because of everybody around him. Collins, although he may sound strong, is as weak as Mimi was – or worse, if that's imaginable. He says he's getting better and that he'll be fine, but Roger and I know the truth. He'll die soon…just like April, Angel, and Mimi. So, you can see why Roger ran, right? He believes that everyone he loves will die and it's all his fault. This isn't true…at least, not entirely. I'm not going to die. For some reason, I'm destined to wander this city for a lifetime, with nothing to offer life but my films, which end up exclusively on the cutting room floor. But, Roger's afraid that I will die and leave him alone. He was never really friends with Maureen or Joanne, so if Collins and I were gone, he'd be all by himself.

Rotate that scenario 180 degrees and you've got me by myself because he left. I wonder if he sees things that way. Naw, I doubt it. He's never really been so intrigued by such meaningless dribble. He's always been more focused on the future than the present, and I'm focused more on the past than anything. So, we're never entirely on the same page. I guess that gives him an even better reason to leave, huh?

The blood that has slowly been rushing to my head is causing my veins to throb with every pulsation of my heartbeat and my head feels as if there is 200 pounds of pressure squeezing it tightly within a viselike grip. Distantly, I hear the phone ring and again I sigh, using all the effort I have left in this weakened body to sit up and turn on my camera to film the answering machine…

"Hey, I'm here, but I don't feel like picking up. Say something worthwhile and perhaps I'll change my mind." That's my voice – alone now – on the machine. I hear the beep, signaling the caller to speak.

"Mark, honey, are you there?"

I groan. My mom….

"Darling, you're never there. Do you feel that much alone?" She sighs. "Pick up the phone…." At her pause, I turn away, letting the camera continue to pick it all up. She knows I can't answer. "Well," her voice is brighter now, "At any rate, we're here, hoping you'll call back, dear. Your father says hello – trust me he does – and Cindy's here baking jello…with her kids and her husband – Mark, are you there? I don't even know if you care, sometimes, 'cause I'm losing all my faith in caring, sometimes, since you don't like to pick up the phone, sometimes – Marky, just call please. Love, Mom!" Another beep and a click as I turn to glare at the machine.

My mother – sweet, dear old mommy dearest who's always been there for me and handed me my scarf and jacket and reminded me to wear my glasses and who's always been so good and nice and adjusted and caring and friendly and so fuckin' happy and jolly that I just wish she wasn't _my_ mom…. But, that's the way it always is, right? You hate your parents, but you know you have to love 'em. That's why I never want children – if for no other reason; because I'd be forced to love them. Unfortunately, the so-called "joys" of parenthood are outweighed by the downfalls of loving them. Besides, I have an emotional problem which renders me unable to receive love from anyone. According to a past psychiatrist of mine, I "drove Maureen away because" I "couldn't handle the commitment". Screw that…. It's not my fault I can't deal with emotions. That's all in the upbringing, or so the high school books always said. Environment knocks out heredity with a brass glove. Round one barely begins.

Ah, but what did my mother _really_ want? What does she ever want? This time, she said she wanted to check up on me, but I know that's not why she's calling. See, my dad and I haven't spoken in about four years or so, since he smacked me around a few times…. Anyway, she calls to make sure I'm okay, but I've never answered once since I moved out here. You'd think she'd take the hint. But, that's another parental pet peeve of mine – they just won't leave me the fuck alone….

Another ring and my head jerks towards the phone – I'm startled somewhat by a second ring. My phone hasn't rung much in the past few days.

Again, my voice meekly offers, "Hey, I'm here, but I don't feel like picking up. Say something worthwhile and perhaps I'll change my mind." A loud beep repeats itself as earlier.

As it's clear for the caller to begin the message, I hear breathing through the speaker – distinct but quiet. My muscles tense slightly as I lower the camera a bit, gawking at the machine. Suddenly, I know who it is.

"M-Mark?" comes a weak voice, trembling slightly with hoarseness. I am silent as I jump towards it, my hand shaking upon the smooth plastic, but I can't force myself to pick it up. "Mark, c'mon, I know you're there…." He laughs sadly, "When are you not there?" I feel my lips quiver slightly and I can feel those damn tears swelling in my eyes. Pick up the phone, Mark! You idiot, just pick it up! "Shit…. Mark? I guess I picked a bad day, huh? I only got a sec to say, I left because I had to go away, and it's not because of you I couldn't stay…." I defiantly clutch the phone, picking it up.

"Roger?" I manage feebly, trying my best to be strong. Don't let him know you miss him or he won't come back….

"Mark!" His voice sounds excited to hear mine, but I doubt anything like that is going through his mind. "Where were you?"

"Uhh…in Central Park." I smile, despite myself. And then, I do the inevitable – put my foot in my mouth: the only thing I seem to be really good at. "You coming home?"

There's this deafening silence that scares the hell out of me, but then he speaks, whispering, "I can't come home…."

I'm angry, "Why the hell not?"

"'Cause I've got a lot of stress in this vacant slot that used to be my heart."

Getting angrier, "So come home and get a fresh start."

I hear him sigh and my anger disappears. "Don't be so selfish, Mark."

"Selfish?" My anger reappears. "I'm not the one who fuckin' left!"

His anger matches mine. "I was bereft!"

"Oh, poor Roger – always forlorn…."

"I'm not the one who constantly mourns over the loss of a lesbian lover –"

"To hell with you," I mutter defensively.

"Thanks…." he whispers sadly, swallowing. "You too…."

A few tense moments of silence are filled here before I work up the courage to say more. "I'm sorry," I mumble softly. "I didn't mean –"

"I know…. If there's one thing I know, you're never what you seem."

My gaze falls to the floor in despair. How right he always is. "So, where are you?"  
"Santa Fe…."

I nod. "Again?"

"Yeah…."

"Are you ever coming back?"

Though I can't see him, I know he stiffens here. "You know I can't do that…not yet, anyway."

"Then when?"

"Some other day…." I hear him shuffling around nervously. "I gotta go…."

I sigh, "You know you'll always be alone if you run away from home."

"You would know," he retorts coldly, causing my anger to flair again.

"You know, I _would_ know!" I take in a breath with a huff. "Since a long time ago, I knew you would go if the slightest hint of trouble sat on the horizon."

"But, Mark I –"

"No! Screw your alibi, 'cause all you do is lie and make excuses for why you had to leave."

"Fuck you, Mark. If you know so much about me, you knew I had to go…."

"So? You're scared that I will die or something else so horrible that you can't bear to say it face to face!"

"What the hell are you talking about, Mark?"

"Why'd you call?" I ask with an ice like tone I never thought I could produce.

I hear an angry huff from his side before the dial tone sounds.

"Surprise, surprise," I narrate sarcastically as I pick up my camera, aiming it towards my dark eyes. "Mark is alone…."

Once again, alone as always. Collins will return to check up on me – he's afraid I'll do something "stupid" – within an hour or so. At that time, he'll also try to convince me to go to dinner with the remnants of our old family….

Goddamn you, Roger! Why can't you just come home? What's so important over there in Santa Fe, anyway? Does is have something that New York doesn't? Maybe I'm taking the wrong approach to life…. Maybe Roger's got the right idea. Maybe I should try to run away from my problems and not care so much about what's happening here and now and beforehand. Maybe I think too much. Yeah, you think too much, Mark. Stop thinking….

Sometimes, I wish I could just pick up everything and leave like Roger does all the time. Though I don't condone it (at least, not to his face), I can see why he does it, and sometimes it just seems so right. Who would miss me anyhow? Maureen? Ha! My little ex-lover-turned-lesbian friend? I think not. Just as surely, Joanne wouldn't miss me…or would she? She and I have grown somewhat close over the past year or so. We have a lot in common it turns out – not least of which is our love for that little vixen performance artist. Collins? Hmm…. Now there's a good question: would Collins miss me if I left? He doesn't seem to mind Roger's absence, so what about me? I suppose I can assume he'd miss me but would get over it. That's about the best guess I could put forth. Benny? (insert chuckles just bubbling with sarcasm here) Benny hasn't cared for the past year or so. He moved away with Muffy dearest – Mrs. Allison Grey Coffin now, I guess – to some little chantey town in New Jersey.

Well, getting back to my memories…. Almost as soon as Benny moved in with Roger, Maureen, Collins, and I, a call from Allison came, stating that she wanted the wedding to be within the next two months. Not too much time for us to live together all as friends, but I think that's the way she wanted it. We all went to the wedding, and I must admit, it was beautiful. We all were as polite as could be. Just five little angels, twiddling their halos as we watched out best friend get married at nineteen. Standing and watching Benny slip that silver sphere on Allison's finger made me realize then that life was so precious and tender. Their kiss was beautifully recorded on my video camera and I watched it over and over again that night. I remember Roger walked in in the midst of my tears upon viewing the lip lock for the fifth consecutive time…

"What're you doin'?" he asked casually, taking a seat beside me on a plush, but rugged, couch we'd found on the street (we were forced to sell it later). 

I turned abruptly, startling myself enough to nearly knock the projector down. "I…uhh…was just umm…."

He laughed, helping me settle it back on the table and get it started again. "Couldn't sleep?"

I nodded, knowing he knew why I was watching that part. "Uh…not in the least. You?"

He shrugged, leaning back. "The same…. Does it feel odd to you that Benny's not here? I mean, not that I care or anything…but it seems weird without him always being here."

I smiled slowly. "Don't say you don't miss him, 'cause you do…. I do, too. It does feel odd knowing he's not around."

He sighed, turning to look at me, seriousness in his eyes. "Why are you watching this? You're not depressed…?"

"No…no! Nothing like that, not at all."

"Then what?"

I shrugged, gesturing towards the kiss. "Look at them…. God, just look at them!"

"What…the kiss?"

I shook my head defiantly. "Don't you see that, or do you miss it? It's as clear as day, Roger." I paused, watching the movie with intensity. "That's not just a kiss – it's bonding; emotionally, physically, solely! Don't you ever dream of that?"

He laughed gently. "You're too romantic, Mark."

I turned to him, quirking a brow. "Do you have a heart?"

"I didn't say I didn't dream it…. I just… I guess I can't explain it."

"Try." I sat back, judging him.

"I don't want to imply that I don't rely on my heart in cases like that, but look at me, Mark. Do _I_ seem so romantic?"

I smirked. "Roger Davis – romantic? I must confess the thought never processed."

He shook his head with a small smile. "But, I understand your thoughts…. You're jealous."

"Not so!" I protested angrily.

"Although that might've fooled me long ago," he whispered, leaning towards me, "I know better now."

I sighed, shrugging. "So what if I am jealous?"

He chuckled to himself. "Try overzealous. You dwell too much on other's lives. Why not live your own and not be so deprived?"

"I've tried…. It's hard when I…" I paused, swallowing. "When I…umm…"

"What?"

I grinned slightly at him. "When I want to marry Maureen and be as happy as Benny and Muffy."

He looked at me differently then and sighed, shaking his head. "Do it then."

"What…now?"  
"No!" He forced a laugh, patting my back harshly. "You'll always be that naive, won't you?"

"Fuck you," I whispered playfully.

He stood. "Get some sleep…."

I shrugged again. "In a while, I'll fall asleep surely…"

He nodded, walking back to his room. I clicked back on the film and rewound to the kiss again. After a few seconds, I felt the cushions move beside me and turned to find Roger back next to me. He cleared his throat, trying not to be so sensitive as he and I knew he was being.

"So, what's so special about Maureen?"

The rest of that night, we sat up and talked until the sun came up. Not that either one of us had jobs (even then we were slobs), so it wasn't deathly important that we get those drastic eight hours sleep. At any rate, that night is branded in my memory as one of the first nights that he actually opened up to me about his feelings for April. He described – in detail – his passion for her and expressed his fears about their relationship and the fact that he could tell she was hiding something from him…. Oh God, more memories I wish I could block from my mind! The days when April would come running into our apartment, throwing her arms around me, complaining that Roger never "made her happy" and that she wished she could die. The nights when she would sneak into my bedroom and wake me to talk about what Roger had done to her. The nights when she'd tiptoe from his bed and crawl into mine and we'd sit the whole night talking about her fears and resolutions, her accomplishments and regrets, until she'd fall asleep and I'd take the couch for the night, waking her before Roger would find her there and think the worst, as he often did. The days when she'd threaten to his face that she would slit her wrists if he wouldn't stop flirting with other girls. The nights when they'd fight, throwing words that neither understood, and then both would come to me and beg to help. The nights when she'd go too far and tell me that she loved me – not Roger – and that she didn't know what she was doing; and then, she'd fall asleep in the middle of a sentence, apologizing the next morning to me and vowing she was drunk or not thinking clearly or too tired to understand her words. And the night she ended it all….

I feel tears prickling my already wet eyes at this reverie. God, she was so alive that day! What happened to cause that poor girl to do something so stupid? She was so beautiful…so radiant and vivid….

I recall she came barging into the house earlier than usual (since she worked as a waitress at Pasta La Pasta until nine or so at night, I hadn't expected her home at six – I should've known something was wrong!) and threw her purse onto the floor, rushing towards me and tossing herself into the couch cushions beside me, sobbing sorrowfully. She mumbled phrases of insubstantial words, jumbled together with no rhyme or reason, and I really remember being frightened and disturbed by her disposition. I asked her repeatedly what was wrong, but she only murmured her replies with such a soft, frantic tone that I couldn't make them out clearly.

"Mark, please...just hold me!" I remember hearing distinctly as she threw her arms around my neck, sobbing against my chest as my timid arms found their place on her back. "Mark…I need to tell…I can't help…Roger…where is…I don't…."

"Shh, c'mon, April," I cooed softly, rubbing her back tenderly. "What happened this time? What'd Roger do? Just calm down, compose yourself and tell me."

I tried to pull away to look at her but she only held me tighter. "God Mark," she started, understandable now, "Why does life have to be so cruel? _Why_?"

I let out a breath, feeling her body pressed closely against mine, her gasp tickling my ear. Geez Mark, just relax…. She's _Roger's_ girlfriend, for Christ's sake! "Sometimes," I said with a trembling voice, "Life can just get complicated – that's all. You just gotta work through it and –" I felt her arms encircle me even tighter, now around my waist, and I felt her breathing slowing considerably, "—you should just…uhh…take it easy and tell me what happened so I can try to help…." My eyes closed instinctively as I felt my heart pound. My pallid lips parted ever so slightly to intake air.

She pushed the air out of her lungs swiftly, sending a sweet breath against my cheek, neck, and ear and I shivered faintly. Obviously, she felt it, because I sensed her body shake with mine in one tremor of…pleasure? Shit, stop this right now, Mark! I remember telling myself. If you don't stop it, you're doing more harm than good! Forget about your fuckin' hormones and push her away! I tried to do just that but found her arms holding me tightly. "Please Mark, don't go…. What have I done? My God, what have I done?"

I swallowed, shaking my head. "I-I don't know, April…. Can you…uhh –" I felt her arms rubbing my back soothingly, "—uhh, just tell me?" Oh God, please stop!

She pulled away slightly, looking at my face through tear-stained eyes. She had such beautiful deep green eyes…. "Mark?"

"Huh?" I remember whimpering, opening my eyes and attempting to breathe.

"You've been such…" she choked on her words here, "…such a good friend to me… I mean, you've always… always been there for me when I needed you…."

I nodded, very uncomfortable with where this was headed. "Look, April, I –"

"And I just wanted to say…thanks." She bowed her head, sniffling away some stray tears, trying to buff herself up to that braveness she'd always prided herself on. "For everything…."

I nodded again, sighing to myself with relief. I started to get up, but as I did, I felt a slight pressure against my right upper-thigh and I froze, my heart thumping wildly. I remember jerking my head towards her and staring into two dark pools of sorrow, knowing it was her fingertips that rested against my pant leg. For that one moment in time when we held each other's gazes, it was as if we knew everything about each other. I knew her fears and worries to the very depth of her soul, and she knew every secret I'd so long suppressed from the world along with my attempts to hide from life. We knew each other so well that I remember this huge wage of guilt fumbling over my body, causing my nerves to twitch. There was something terribly wrong with April today…. Didn't she look thinner than yesterday? Didn't her eyes have bags underneath them? Didn't she look at me as if she were different? Didn't I see those pleading eyes, begging me to help her? No! Foolish Mark jumped to his feet – terrified that she knew his deepest, darkest secrets – and began to flee from the room with a few mumbles of words towards her pretty form, still seated, or so I thought, on the couch where she'd stolen my thoughts! But, as suddenly as I'd begun to leave, I felt a hand on my shoulder, turning me towards the image of April again as she stood before me at the threshold of the loft that belonged to Roger and I!

She lifted a hand to caress my left cheek, stroking my tender skin and causing my blood to flow with vengeance. The very fibers of my nerves twitched frantically at this contact and the immense feelings of shame were personified beyond measure until I was a jumble of anxiety and tension. She leaned close to me, pulling my lips towards hers until they nearly touched! Oh, so close that I yearned….

And then, she whispered, her breath tickling my lips, "I know you're scared too…of everything that I am…." She paused with a sigh. "Thank you…."

I could only nod, wincing in lustful pain. Why the hell was she doing this to me? "You're welcome…. It's the least I can do…." God, still proper after all this!

She laughed then, pulling away and smiling to herself sorrowfully. "Go ahead, Mark…. Thanks for listening." She looked back with a regretful glance that I will never forget as long as I live. "And tell Roger that I love him, will you?"

I remember wavering from where I stood, still in the threshold, and I grabbed the doorframe to steady my shaking body. "I'll send him home…."

She continued to watch me as I left, for I remember the tense feeling of her gaze following me out of the room. I collapsed once I reached the music publishing company downstairs and attempted to compose myself. What the hell just happened?

After a few minutes of quiet consideration, Roger rushed inside, heading straight towards me. "Where's April?"

I stuttered my reply, "U-upstairs. She wants you to go up there…"

"Is she okay?" he asked quickly. "She called up at The Blue Room, where I was practicing for tomorrow's gig, and told me I needed to get home ASAP because she needed to talk to me. I'm worried…."

I shook my head, shrugging. "She just wants to talk to you…. She wouldn't tell me what was wrong…."

He eyed me suspiciously, noting my odd behavior. "You talked to her? What'd she say?"  
"Nothing."

"Bullshit, Mark!" He paused, grabbing my arm, scared. "Is she going to break up with me?"

The rest of our conversation blurs. All I remember is him rushing upstairs and coming back down within moments, reporting that she'd locked the bathroom door and refused to see him. We went to get dinner at some obscure café a few blocks away and met Collins up there. He was leaving soon for college and this would be one of our last chances to get out with him. Sensing the tension, he helped us both to get happy and try to calm ourselves. Meanwhile, my mind was spinning, reeling like the film in my camera. I couldn't tell Roger…. No, I just couldn't!

After a half hour or so, Roger left to go talk to April. He never came back.

When I went to go home after another half hour, I found police cars surrounding our loft and an ambulance with a stretcher nearby. I felt my knees give way suddenly as my gaze fell upon the white sheet covering a woman's body. The gentle curves of the white blanket gave it all away. I knew it was April the moment I saw it. My heart fell out from my chest and I sank down to my knees.

Roger didn't come home for three days. When he did finally come home, he was drunk and his eyes were bloodshot and stained with tears. I didn't ask any questions or say anything – I simply pulled him to a hug, which he fought like hell to get out of, but I persisted and held him still until he was sobbing and we were both sobbing together.

I never did tell him what happened before he came home. What good would it do, anyway?

April's death marked the beginning of months of repressed emotions and missed opportunities for Roger. I forced myself to sell some films to minor studios and did a few shows downtown to get money in order for us to stay at the loft, but after a while, no one wanted me. It was a hard pill to swallow on both halves. Roger wouldn't talk to me for weeks after her death, and I feared he knew everything. Collins had left for college already and Maureen had become suddenly distant, talking with an old school friend of hers constantly – Joanne somethingorother, I recalled. Benny had not spoken to either of us since he found out about April's death. He was scared too, since he loved April as much as we all had. And me? I was the same old giving, caring Mark Cohen, who attempted to console the inconsolable.

God, these memories depress the hell out of me…. It's almost as if everything in my life has been a horrifying experience leading up to nothing – like a false climax in an old forgotten symphony. It's ironic, really, that Roger's gone now. He'd be the one to tell me, "Stop thinking Mark." But, now I'm doing it for him. And yet, I can't control my thoughts. They stray no matter what I do….

My nerves jump at the noise of another ring. I compose myself quickly and release a long-held breath, staring at the machine. Screw it. Like I ever answer the phone anyway…. Someone would think there was something wrong if I _did_ pick up.

"Hey, I'm here, but I don't feel like picking up. Say something worthwhile and perhaps I'll change my mind." After hearing that a third time today, I feel like changing it back to the original "speak!" message. The new one's rather annoying.

"Mark?" It's Roger again and I force myself not to pick up. If he's got anything to say, he'll say it before I answer. "C'mon Mark, pick up the phone so I can apologize…." He sighs, almost sadly. "Fine, I'll say it here…. I didn't realize why I called before, but now I do, and I just wanted to tell you what's in store for me." He pauses, waiting for me to pick up. I hold my ground, trembling. "Mark, I know you're listening right now…. So don't disavow how you're words were worse than mine. I've only got a minute of time to say…." A long pause is placed here and I know he's debating whether or not to chuck his pride and be my friend or not. Finally, he groans softly and I hear him get closer to the phone, as if to hide his next words. "I'm sorry…."

I smile slightly, picking up the phone. "Hey. Ditto."

I can almost feel his smile through the phone. "I knew you were home."

"I'm always alone…. Still want to roam Santa Fe?"

"Maybe one more day…at least."

"Roger, please…. Just come home. We all miss you –"

"Who's we?" he asks cautiously.

I chuckle softly, recalling my exact questioning earlier towards Collins. "Everyone but me."

"I see." Again, I know him so well that I can feel his content grin. But, I feel it disintegrate just as fast. "I can't come home."

I nod, although I know he can't see me. "You've got a runaway syndrome."

"I know, and I wish I could return…. But… This is the last of my change. I gotta make some money before I can call again…. _If_ I call again…."

"If?" I ask, slightly scared. There's no response and I sigh. "Well, don't waste the rest of your money on me. I'm a little nobody –"

"No," he whispers defiantly. "Don't say that." He pauses for a long time. "Look, I gotta go. I'll be home in a month or so, if I don't sink too low."

"Uh huh," is my only sad response. "I guess I'll see ya later then…"

"Yeah…" There's a long breath of silence between us. Neither one wants to hang up first. 

"You know she would've wanted you home, not running around the country." No response. "She loved you, Roger."

I hear a choked response. "Bye."

I sigh. "See ya…."

Silence. Not even a dial tone. I can't allow a dial tone.

I'm thinking maybe I should get a job now. Roger was helping to pay the rent with his new band's gig money, but now that he's gone….

I stand to my feet and stretch out my legs. I've been sitting so idly for the past few days that I'm not sure what to do with myself. Maybe I'll go get a job as a waiter in some obscure café uptown. Hell, maybe the Life Café needs someone. Or maybe I'll give in and call someone to produce a film of mine. Maureen would say, "Mark, you're giving in to society! Don't be a chump!" But she doesn't really care…. Maybe I'll just leave the apartment and roam the city alone. I haven't left the house in three days, so perhaps it'll be good for me to clear my head and try to do something else. I need to take my mind off of Roger and the haunting memories his absence brings. I just need to get out of the house.

I walk, camera in hand, towards the door and place my hand on the knob, preparing to turn. Something stops me and I'm seized by anxiety. I sink to the floor, trembling and cautiously scoot away from the door. What the hell's going on? Why can't I leave my own house? My heart seems to be beating a mile a minute and I can feel the blood surging through my veins. What's wrong with me? My head aches and my stomach churns with apprehension. My eyes cloud with tears. God, Mark: pull yourself together! Sometimes you're such a sissy! I feel my hands shaking like the rest of my body and I let myself lean against the wall, slamming my eyes shut. C'mon, Mark, just calm down…. Just stop thinking about everything and walk out that door. It's not hard; what's the matter with you? No, don't cry! But, I feel the tears flowing.

Why is this happening to me? Is it because I haven't eaten a scrap of food for two days? Is it because I haven't moved from the table in three? Is it because my emotions are running high after recalling all those horrible memories? Is it because I'm always hiding and I'm finally getting caught from behind my camera? Is it because I've felt like vomiting for hours but didn't want to pull myself away from this table? Is it because I have no money and Benny will be by in a week or so to pick up the rent? Or is it simply because I'm a nobody living in a somebody world?

Suddenly, I see spots dancing on the insides of my eyelids and I feel the room begin to sway, melting away….


	2. Depression, Regression, Suppression

CHAPTER II: Depression, Regression, Suppression

CHAPTER II: **Depression, Regression, Suppression**

1 Month Later….

"Marky!" She bounds into my bedroom, hopping on my bed alongside me, tossing her purse swiftly. "My sweet little Marky!" She tussles my hair.

"Stop it, Maureen," I protest, pushing her away hurriedly. "Please, just leave me alone."

She frowns heavily. "What's the matter? Look hun, I know you were sick and all, but – to quote a Partridge Family song – c'mon get happy! You've been sulking for the past few weeks and –"

"One month."

She gives me a look. "You're keeping track?"

I shoot her a glare. "What else is there to do when you can't do anything else?"

Collins wanders in and takes a seat on my other side, also deciding to mess my hair. "Hey kido, how ya feeling?"

I groan, pushing his hands away. "Fine."

"You're a terrible liar."

"So I'm not feeling well – what's the difference?"

"We're just trying to help, sweets," Maureen coos, looking down at me as if I were on my deathbed.

"Where's Joanne?" I ask angrily. Who knows why I'm angry. Oh, probably because my friends are treating me like a fuckin' invalid!

"She's working, dear. Don't get so upset at us. We're only trying to help."

"Well, help the poor – _they_ need it."

Collins cocks his head slightly, shaking it. "Tut tut Mark," he says calmly, shaking a finger at me. "Play nice."

"Nice?" I roll my eyes. "Look, I just need some time – _alone_ – so please, leave."

He sighs. "Fine, Mark. You're going to lose all your friends at the rate you're going."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Collins adds defensively. "Just take it easy, pal. Get some rest." He and Maureen begin to walk out, but he stops, looking back at me. "And if you don't eat something, I'll come back and force it down your throat."

My eyes narrow with held anger. "I'll look forward to that."

He shakes his head again, tossing me a roll of film for my camera, which I catch in my lap. "Use that to get out of the house, okay? We all hate to see you cooped up here all alone."

And with that, he's gone. Suddenly, the feelings of remoteness and misery envelop me unsympathetically in their tight grasp. For the past month, I've been so alone and dejected from life that I haven't left the house once – except when I was hospitalized for a night in some stupid free clinic because I hadn't eaten in three days. That was pure hell and I got out of there fast, promising them I'd eat something. After all, that's what they wanted to hear right? Actually, I'm not trying to starve myself or anything, but lately, the feeling of hunger has not been around me. I just haven't wanted food, I guess. But, of course, all my "friends" think, "Oh poor Mark! He's depressed and anxious all the time, so he's probably trying to starve himself to death!" "Poor Mark! Just look at him and you can see that he misses Roger and Mimi and still doesn't get into life as he should!" "Mark is vulnerable and disheartened and that's why he doesn't care about anyone anymore. He's just depressed…" Fuck them! They just don't get it. It all started with April. She died and my world crashed around me because Roger couldn't handle anything, so I had to always be there for him and help him. When Angel died, my world shook again and I felt this void beginning to manifest itself in my heart. Roger didn't help. He ran. Then, Mimi dies and I feel that the one person who Roger could've been happy with has left us all – forcing Roger to run and me to be alone again. Roger runs and I get hospitalized – doesn't seem fair, does it?

I force myself out of the small futon that has occupied my frail body for the past couple weeks and make my way to the table, where I know there's some food left. I pick up a box of Doritos that Collins bought a while back, set my film down, and take a seat on one of the folding tables, munching quietly.

Yeah, I know I need to get out of the house. I never realized it before, but being under my own house arrest has made me turn into Roger. I snap at everyone, get panic attacks when I want to step outside the house, and go through my memories like a scrapbook of horrors. Do I remember all of the good times we all had? God help me, yes I do.

I remember when Angel was alive and she helped us all realize how precious life was; I remember Roger and April, then Roger and Mimi; I remember Collins when he was young and I was naïve; I remember the schoolroom where Benny and I would sit and work on multimedia presentations for our class; and I remember Maureen and Joanne (sad as that may sound, it is a happy thought) fighting and making up, all within minutes of the other. So, my memory can hold nice thoughts….

My gaze wanders to the doorknob and I take in a breath. God, Mark, it's been far too long since you've been outside this damned loft. Get over Roger and get out there.

Suddenly, I wonder why I'm not "out there". I pick up my camera and load the brand new cartridge of film that Collins was kind enough to buy – remind me to thank him later – and I stand, taking a few steps towards the door. Then, I just say 'to hell with that' and stomp outside. I stumble down the stairs into the old music publishing company that has just recently started up again after a long downfall of a year or so of no business. Throwing open the door, I step into the warm New York air. Shit, is it summer already? And now, for the first time since Mimi died, I smile. I mean, I really smile. This isn't one of those fake smirks that I put on for other people's pleasure – it's damn real!

I turn on my camera and begin to film, wandering down Avenue B. I laugh out loud upon spotting a group of tourists (I know they're tourists because of the backpacks, cameras, and shirts that say "Explore America" on them) who are gawking at some of the small Village shops that are always set up on the streets. I grin; knowing every one of those kids will buy an authentic Indian or Arabic elephant carving for only five bucks. Ha! America!

As I film them, they spot me and two of them (both females, around 16 or so) rush over frantically. "Uh oh," I say to myself quietly.

"Hey, since you know how to work a camera, could you take a picture of all of us together?" Their bright eyes implore me and I am helpless to resist.

"Sure." I turn off my camera and take theirs, aiming it for the group and zooming in. I wait until they are set and then snap a picture of the kids outside the Life Café (of all places!). The two kids run up again and say their thanks. "You're welcome…. Where are you all from?"

"New Mexico," one of them replies with a smile. "Santa Fe."

My smile disappears slightly. "Really? I have…_had_ a friend who just went there." I could laugh at myself for asking this next question to a group of kids who don't know anything probably, but it's a hope. "Know a Roger Davis?"

The other kid looks at me with wide eyes. "_The_ Roger Davis?"

I nod slowly. What the hell…? "Yeah, I guess…. Why, you know him?"

"God! If only we knew him!" they both cried anxiously. "He's so hot!"

I chuckle aloud and shake my head. "Maybe we have the wrong person…. He plays guitar?" They nod. "Blondish hair?" Another nod. I smile to myself, somewhat sadly. "How do you know of him?"

"He plays at this local club like a mile or from my house! We go there every Friday and Saturday night to see him." They both are blushing now. "Are you friends with him?"

I shrug, lowering my gaze. "I kinda was, kid."

Suddenly, their tour guide whistles, holding up a ridiculous painted umbrella. "Shoot, we gotta go."

"Wait, does Roger ever come here?" the other girl asked anxiously. "Where does he stay? With you? Where does he eat? What kind of shops does he go to?"

I hold up my hands, chuckling. "He used to live with me." I smiled a little more. It was kind of fun to play the movie star's sidekick just to get some attention from some little kids. "I doubt he's coming back, though."

They frown. "Okay then… Well, see ya! Thanks for the picture!"

I stop them. "Wait… If you go back to that club, could you do me a favor?"

"Yeah, sure… I guess."

"Give a message to Roger…?"

"If we can, yeah!"

"Do you have any paper?"

One of them took out a small scrap of paper and I took out a worn-out pencil from my pocket, scribbling the following message: **Roger – I heard you were famous. Guess you have better luck in Santa Fe than NYC, huh? Gimmie a ring when you can. The whole gang misses you back here. –Mark. P.S. Written anything worthwhile lately?** I hand it to the kids, folding it a few times. "I don't care if you read it, but make sure and give it to him when you get back home." I smile genuinely. "Have fun in NY."

"Thanks! Bye!" They run off energetically, back to their group leader who glares at me slightly. Guess New Yorkers aren't welcomed to talk to tourists. Ah well. Amazingly enough, I feel great now.

6 More Months Later….

"Excuse me, are you Mark Cohen?"

I look up from the cup of mint tea I've been studying for the past half hour and smile at a young man (he can't be more than 17) who looks at me from behind silver square-rimmed glasses, his eyes a bright blue, his hair blonde and scraggly. I nod affirmatively. "Yeah, that's me."

He beams, white teeth spreading before me happily as he motions to himself. "I'm Toby Caplan…. I'm a _big_ fan. Could you just sign an autograph for me? I'm sorry if I'm being a bother. I'm not usually so forward and aggressive with this type of thing, but you've been my idol ever since I saw your film in the Maze Theatre on 5th Street. I just have to say that you are by far the –"

I laugh, "Take it easy on the compliments, kid." I gesture to the seat across from me, and he nearly jumps into it. I take a napkin from a nearby table and scribble my signature – something I've never truly mastered the art of – and slide it across the table to him. "So, you liked my movie, huh? Which one?"

"Oh, all of them!" he whispered anxiously.

I chuckled, taking another drink. Situations like these had become unavoidable since I – as Maureen calls it – sold out. The reason that I myself know I haven't sold out – Benny is not proud of me. The day Benny's proud is the day I've sold my soul. Anyway, ever since my first movie was played in a small theatre that Joanne and Collins bought out for a birthday present – I'd almost forgotten I _had_ a birthday – I've become somewhat of a cult sensation. People stop me on the streets, asking for my autograph (since I was featured in my film). This kid seems different, somehow, though. Hm, what is it about him that reminds me of myself? "Really? All of them?"

He blushes – another similarity. "I've seen a few more than once…"

"Shit, kid," I mutter with a smirk, hailing a waiter. "Want something to drink? On me?"

He brightens more, if that's possible. "Oh, I wouldn't want to –"

"Impose? Don't be silly." The waiter comes quickly, now that he knows I can afford to pay. I turn to my new companion, "What'll you have, kid?"  
"Tea, I guess."

I laugh. "Fill mine up again with an extra for Toby. Thanks." The waiter walks away briskly. "So, I have a fan then? Label me shocked."

"Well, I'm not the only one, Mr. Cohen. I –"

"Oh geez! Please don't call me that. My dad's Mr. Cohen. Just call me Mark… Either that or 'your holiness, sir'."

He chuckles. "Oh…well…Mark, I'm not the only one who's a fan of yours. Most of my friends are. You have a huge following."

I nod, leaning back. "I guess I can't get used to that. It just hasn't sunk in yet."

Our teas arrive and we sit in silence for a moment before he speaks up again. "Has Roger ever come back yet?"

I look up, my eyes dim. My first film was about my relapse caused by Roger's absence. My second was about my attempted suicides because of life in general due to Roger's absence and so on, etc. So, basically whoever sees my movies knows my emotions to their fullest. They also must know that Roger is my closest friend and the man who is nearer than a brother to me. My gaze lowers to my tea as I sip again. "Nope. That's why I'm here today, actually."

He leans forward, somewhat hopeful it seems. "Is he coming back today?"

"So his postcard said." Oh, I recall the exact words: **Mark – Heard you were famous. Be home by New Year's. Can't wait to see the gang again and lay in that freezing loft of a shithole house. –Roger. P.S. Done any good films lately?** His humor was as subtle as mine in the note I wrote to him and that is the only way I know he received that scribbled piece of paper. I never got a phone call from him, so I could only assume from the post card that he meant to return exactly on New Year's Day. So, I've been sitting here at the Life Café, prolonging the agony of facing him straight on. I've changed a lot since he's been gone, and I know he must have too. I guess I'm afraid I'll return to old habits if I see him as he once was. Too many memories lay in that familiar smile.

"Mark?" Toby's voice breaks through my thoughts and I realize he's been talking for a little while now. "You okay?"

"Huh? Sorry…. Yeah, fine, fine." I force a smile. "What were you saying?"

He continues as if nothing had happened, trying to – it seems – not draw attention to the fact that I'm slightly absentminded and aloof. "I was asking how you got started in films. I've been shooting footage of my life and my friends ever since I was really young, and I want to pursue it as a career."

I laugh lightly. "You wanna be a filmmaker?"

"Yeah."

"Well, all I can say is…don't take after me." We both laugh. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as a man enters, brushing back his long blonde hair and surveying the restaurant carefully. Our eyes meet and it takes us both a moment to recognize one another, but as soon as we do, I feel my feet lifting of their own accord and I stand, watching him stride over to my usual corner table. Toby stands up, confused and suddenly realizes it all and smiles.

"Mark…." Roger breathes, his thin lips curving into a welcoming smile.

"Hey stranger," I reply, mimicking him with a tight smirk, lowering my gaze shyly. We stand opposite one another, neither one of knowing really what to do first. It's been so long and he's changed, as I knew he would.

"Well, can we talk later, Mark?" Toby asks quietly, as shyly as I would.

"Uh…yeah sure." I shake his hand, signing my number on the autograph absently. "Gimmie a call and we'll hang out sometime."

He nearly jumps out of his skin and nods quickly, checking Roger before he eventually bounds out of the café. Roger and I are alone now and we stand awkwardly, just feet apart, both unable to move. Finally, he makes a move and pulls me into a hug. We embrace tightly and laugh and cry.

"Shit, Mark," he whispered through a chortle, brushing his fingers through my tresses. "What the hell have you done to your hair?" He refers to the fact that my hair is bright red now, longer slightly, and streaked with blonde highlights – a new look I'm fond of that Maureen did for free.

"I was about to ask you the same thing!" I chuckle, noting the blondeness has doubled in his ear-length locks.

He pulls away and we're still laughing. "So, I've heard that you're making a little name for yourself here. Was that a fan?"

"Yeah." I lower my gaze with a slight blush. "I heard you had teenage girls running you over and screaming your name in taverns."

He grins. "I gotta admit – it's not so bad being semi-recognized."

"Just don't join a boy-band, Roger. I'm not sure I could handle that."

He smirks, gyrating his hips and waving his hands in the air. "I have the body for it!"

I groan, pushing his hands down. "Stop!" I laugh through my own words.

"Am I embarrassing you?" he asks, seemingly concerned.

"Hell yeah! Knock it off."

He starts up again, jumping on top of the table. "Mark Cohen – you're my hero!" I pull against his jacket, shielding my eyes as the restaurant gawks and stares.

"Stop! Roger!" I giggle still, watching him. It's as if nothing's changed.

He hops down, hugging me again. "The only thing I really missed about this place was the fact that I could embarrass the hell out of you with no effort put forward."

"I don't know whether to smack you or hug you," I reply.

"Please, no more hugs…"

I smile and he smiles and we're both smiling! The cheesy part of my brain tells me we're just bubbling with stuff to tell one another and we should go to a Starbucks and settle into a couch there. But, the reality-based section of my brain smacks the other half, telling it to go to hell – Starbucks can't beat the Life Café.

Roger's voice interrupts my thoughts so softly, "How was the funeral?"

I shrug sadly, taking a seat as he sits across from me. "It was…. _God_ Roger, it was a _funeral_."

"That's all you've got to say about it?" He leans on the table expectantly.

I look up into those large pleading eyes of his and realize exactly what he wants to know. "It was beautiful, Roger. Just what she would've wanted."

He smiles with a hint of sadness and nods, lowering his eyes. "H-how's Collins?"

I wince slightly at the question. Poor Collins…. "He's…um…"

"Don't sugarcoat it, Mark," he interjects. "I want to hear whatever the truth is."

I nod, taking another – long – drink of my tea first. "He's been in and out of the hospital. He's…umm…. He's not doing well, Roger."

His eyes dance and he looks away, folding his hands on the table in front of him and twiddling his thumbs carelessly. "Oh…"

"Yeah, the infection is just snowballing out of control." I pause, staring at him long enough until he gets the hint that I want to look at him. As his eyes rise, I whisper, "He's dying."

Immediately, he turns his head away again, but I caught a look of fear in those eyes of his before he did so. He makes no comment; he only whimpers as if in pain, his whole appearance changing before me. What I see is not the Roger I once knew. He's different now – sad and depressed. Christ, have we traded places? I'm completely at ease – before he left, I would've lost it at our hellos – and he's tense and dejected. The time away in Santa Fe must have not done as much good as harm.

"You okay, Roge?" I ask quietly, leaning forward and trying to catch a glimpse of his hidden façade.

"Yeah….No…." He pauses, placing his head in his hands. "Shit…"

"Wanna go back to the loft?" I ask, absentmindedly slipping into old habits. 'Go back', I'd said. Stupid question, Mark – he hasn't been 'back' to the loft since fuckin' seven months ago!

"No," he replies, choked for words. After a moment or so, he composes himself and looks up. "How's everyone else? Maureen and Joanne well?"

I smirk softly, lopsidedly. "They're fighting."

He laughs, sniffing and wiping his eyes. There are no tears, but it seems as though it was a close call. "Same old lesbians, huh?"

I nod. "How's your band?"

He shrugs indifferently, leaning his elbows onto the table. "Boring as hell."

"But, aren't you guys getting famous over there on the other side of the country?"

"Yeah…"

"So?"

His eyes narrow. "So, what?"

I roll my eyes, leaning back. "Never mind. When are you leaving to go back?"

"I dunno. Soon, probably. I mean, our band's on tour right now in a little town outside of here."

"That's why you came home?" I asked, more hurt than I thought I'd be by this statement that I'd assumed since I got his letter.

"Well…yeah."

"Oh."

"What, oh?"

"Nothing. Where else is on the tour?"

"New Jersey, Wisconsin, Missouri and California."

"Sounds like quite a mix," I reply with an uninterested air. I'm bored out of my mind. It strikes me as odd now, how we can't find a single thing to talk about after all this time. Didn't conversations used to slide off our tongues? I take another sip of my tea, trying to forget. Just enjoy your time with him, Mark. Who knows when he'll leave you again.

"Yeah, it is. It's fun. I guess."

"You guess?"

"Well…." He sighs, leaning back and sitting sloppily, folding a napkin in various designs as a distraction. "Yeah, it _is_ fun."

He's lying. I can tell. "Don't you miss home?" I ask softly, hopeful.

His whole body tenses for a moment before he sort of settles into a more comfortable leg-up-on-the-table position as he tossed the napkin back on the table, folding his hands on his lap. "I guess."

"You guess?"

He looks up, slightly annoyed. "Yeah – I _guess_."

I groan, shaking my head. "Do you plan to tell me the truth at all today, or were you going to lie your way through your stay?"

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" he asks angrily.

"If you only came here 'cause your band's on tour, I must be the biggest fool of the year."

"If the shoe fits…" he mumbled incoherently.

"Yeah, that's right Roger – slip back into old habits and denounce Mark Cohen for being a fraud. Trust me – he already knows, okay?" Roger remained silent. "Fine, you're not gonna even talk to me now? God Roger, you haven't changed, have you? You're still so damn insecure about everything, but you're still struggling to make it seem like you don't need anyone, when all you really need is someone to help you. I know, you cringe at the word _help_, because you think it makes you weak and vulnerable to get help from someone. I got news for ya, pal – the whole fuckin' race of people in this shitty world are vulnerable and weak! What gives you the right to try and be different, when all you're doing is being another one of society's pretty boy front men who waste their opportunities to be different?" By this point, I was standing up and the restaurant must've been staring, but I didn't realize it. I had kept my rage so bottled up and hidden from everyone that I hadn't realized I'd been trembling with anticipation for the one moment when I could release it to the one person who'd fucked up my life since he left. And I'm not even finished yet! "And why the hell can't you just admit that you've missed me? Why can't you just say that you've been homesick?"

"Maybe 'cause I haven't been!" he retorted, pulling me down, but I persisted and remained standing. "Sit down, Mark! Why are you getting so pissed?"

My eyes blaze and my voice rises in anger. "Have you even _seen_ any of my films, Roger?"

"No," he whispers after a short pause.

"Well, when you do, then you can talk to me. Maybe then you'll understand." With that said, I dropped a few crisp bills and change on the table and walked casually out of the Life Café. Oh God, what a day

4 Months Later….

Well, that day was the last I saw of Roger. Damn him, damn him, and did I mention 'damn him'? I made a mental note to myself not to have anything more to do with him. After all, he was getting me more depressed than I'd ever been. It's not like I need him, anyway. I mean, I was doing just fine on my own before he came back to NYC with his shitty little band. But, of course, thoughts of how close of friends we used to be swirl through my mind like a spiral of memories. I'm always thinking! Damn it, stop thinking, Mark!

"Do you really think you can fool yourself, Mark?" my voice narrates to a camera on a tripod. The red light blinks dimly – it's again low on batteries. Let's see just how much film I have left. "Do you really think that Roger didn't miss you and that he was just as happy to be on tour with his band than to be in the loft with you? Do you really think you don't still miss him and that every film you ever make won't continue to reflect how close you two are? Do you really think the whole word – everyone who sees your films – do you think they can't tell that you're depressed and that you've tried to commit suicide? Do you really think you're happy 'selling out' to producers and directors with these pitiful little reels that you create because you have nothing better to do? Do you really think you have friends? Do you really think Collins is getting better and Roger's coming back? What _do_ you think, Mark?

"A better question: do you think at all?

"Want a quick answer to that? No. I've once again returned to the root of my problems." I resituate myself on the table, crossing my legs Indian style and brushing a hand through my even longer red hair, which I haven't combed yet – I never do. "I've been sitting here, locked up in my house for weeks now…since the last time I delivered a film to some little shack on 4th Street. Before I started delivering films to theaters and getting them played, I was just like this. Everyone recalls my first film about my life as a freak of society. I'm reliving those days when I went into a Roger-like relapse. I haven't eaten in a few days – I'm just not hungry – and I haven't really moved in weeks. I went to visit Collins before I became this way, which probably got me to where I am now…. Oh shit," I catch my mistake and shake my head frantically. "Edit that line." That's a private note to myself to cut the sentence about Collins making me this way out. If he ever saw it and knew...oh God. "Anyway, I was visiting Collins in the hospital a few weeks ago and I was extremely terrified for him. The poor guy! He was once so strong and so alive; now he lays, pale and scrawny, with IV's sticking in every part of him. It's so disturbing… I couldn't imagine him ever wanting to be like that. I remember the days when he was still running around telling me what to do, promising to check up on me and –" Interrupting me is a series of rings on the phone. I jump to my feet, putting myself behind the camera and turning it towards the phone. "The phone rings," I mutter, adjusting the lens. "Zoom in on the answering machine…." A beep sounds. My voice speaks, "I'm probably here – nowhere – but not answering. Change my mind." The new message sounds just as cheap as the old one and I frown upon hearing it, making a mental note to change it again.

"Mark, it's Medusa herself – your mother. Hope you're not eating any _hametz." I groan. Is it Passover already? "We're all impressed that each film of yours brings in quite a sum. Even your father's gotten into the spirit. I'm sending you a Seder plate and hiding _the****_Afikomen for you." Another groan. Does she think I'm still five years old and waiting for that damned prize? Cindy and I used to tear the Afikomen in half so that we'd both get a prize. I wonder if Cindy's there still…. "Your father says hi, Mark," she whispers. I know she's covering the phone so that he won't hear her lie that way. He never did take kindly to that shit. "Anyway, we're all eating Haroseth and thinking of you. Love, mom!"_

_I stumble back into view, holding the camera steady on the tripod, settling it to film me. I shake my head, not saying a word about my mother's call (since I know she'll eventually see the film) and backing up until I sit once again on the table, crossing my legs again like a little child. "My mother, folks. How Jewish is she?" I smirk, pushing up my glasses. "Now, where was I…? Oh yeah – about Collins' condition. As I was saying, Collins used to run around like a chicken with his head cut off, tossing money to homeless people like there was no tomorrow, buying me dinner – and, come to think of it, breakfast and lunch, too – sending money to AIDS charities, etc. He's become a regular Superman since Angel's death. After Mimi was taken, his cause was magnified. He's worked himself ragged, and now he's paying for it, unfortunately." I sigh softly, lowering my eyes. "I feel so alone – so helpless – so useless – so…so…" I shake my head, searching for the right words, but it slips my mind. "…so…" Imperfect? Stupid? Worthless? Which is it, Cohen? Fortunately, the phone rings again and this opportunity to pause in my reflections heightens my sense of awareness as I slip back behind the camera. "The phone rings – again. Looks like," another ring, "Mark Cohen is popular today. Zoom in on the answering machine." A beep sounds and my voice repeats the message, "I'm probably here – nowhere – but not answering. Change my mind." Another beep._

_"Mark Cohen – Alexi Darling from Buzzline!" Ugh, not again! I just got through with her, I thought. "You're films of your life – triple A! Feature-filmlines-networks—deal-time. I'm sending you another contract – I know you're interested." What the hell does she know? "Give ya over $30,000 a film." My eyes widen. Ho-oly crap… "Marky, give us a call: 970-4301, or at home try 863-6754, or my cellphone, at 919-763-0090, or you can e-mail me at Darling Alexi Newscom dot net, or visit my website at WWW dot Buzzline dot Alexi dot com, or try the faxline at –" The final beep._

_I stare, open-mouthed at the phone for a full minute before I realize I'm still rolling. "Shit," I say as I stand before the viewfinder. "I'm amazed and, as much as I don't want to admit it, interested." I run my hands through my long tresses, rolling my head back slightly. "Shit -- $30,000 a film! That's like five times what I get selling them to the other stupid little companies… When did Buzzline turn into Goodwill? I mean, they used to take freaks and sell-outs and now all of a sudden they're looking into independent filmmakers? Something doesn't sound right… But, geez, do I have to dissect every little thing about this deal? I mean, shit – that's a lot of money! I could help Collins out with treatments with all this…. But, I'm selling out, aren't I? Fuck." I pause, pushing my glasses up my nose. "I can't decide right now. I'll have to sleep on it, I guess and –" I hear the locks on my door wiggling and I turn in time to see Toby entering. He wears a Yankees t-shirt and a pair of too-baggy jeans with a flattened bucket-cap. God, he reminds me of myself at his age._

_"Oh shoot… You're filming," he whispers, dodging the camera's view with a few sidesteps. "Sorry," he mouths from behind the camera._

_"No problem," I say, waving him to talk and settling the camera. I smirk. "Since your voice is already on the film, anyway." Toby and I have become close friends since our first meeting. He's gotten over the idealism of me as his model filmmaker and learned to think for himself and do his own thing._

_He laughs, blushing and comes out from behind the scenes into center stage, beside me. The lens catches sight of his own mini-cam._

_"Act natural and whatever you do don't look into the lens. I can't stand that." I tell him this because he's never been on camera with me before, and I'm afraid he might ruin the shot. Reality is what I film – nothing less._

_"Sure," he replies, more at ease. "So, what're you up to?"_

_"Nothing, really. Just musing."_

_"As usual."_

_I nod with a smile. "Shut up. What brings you here?"_  
_"I gotta ask you a favor," he whispers softly, almost apologetically. I want to bring him out of his shell still – like Roger did for me – but as much as I've tried, I can't._

_"Hm…You don't sound too sure you want to ask," I reply, taking a seat on the table again. "But, what is it?"_

_"Uhh…I'm moving out of my house…and I…uhh..need a place to stay…"_

_I fight back a grin. "Oh?" I ask, unsympathetically, pretending to fiddle with some papers that are strewn over the tabletop._

_"Yeah…"_

_I look up, disinterested. "So you want me to help you find a place?" I pretend to ponder the thought. "There's a great, cheap motel over on Avenue C and 10th. It's roach-infested, but it's probably the best you could –"_

_"Oh…" he whispers, down heartened._

_I laugh, reaching out and smacking him in the chest. He eyes me oddly, almost hurt. "Toby?"_

_"Huh?"_

_"Did you want to stay here?" I smirk again. Sometimes it's too easy to joke with him, but he's so vulnerable that I need to be careful._

_He smiles gently. "Sometimes I hate you."_

_"I know. I'm downright evil, hm?" I grin. "Pack your bags and be moved in by tomorrow."_

_"But, Mark, I –"_

_"Doesn't matter," I interrupt, holding up a palm to silence him. "Either move in tomorrow or not at all." I chortle. "You need to be spontaneous around me, because I'm all too reserved for us both." I glance over at my camera and the red light that's dying down. I stumble towards it. "Shit, batteries are dead." I turn back, looking over my shoulder at Toby, who fiddles with his small, handheld camera. Geez, a new roommate – what will become of this?_

_ _

_ _

_ _

_ _

_ _

_"How's my favorite little Gaylord?" I ask, entering the dingy, free clinic where Collins is staying for a while. Lately, I've given him the nickname Gaylord, if, for no other reason, that to piss him off._

_He coughs a reply, closing his eyes – each breath is a massive task through the breathing machines he's hooked up to. "Good." He attempts to smile, which takes most of his energy. God, he's getting so bad… "Wh-what's up?"_

_I force a big Mark-is-happy-and-everything's-fine smile. "Not too much. My new film's coming out tonight."_

_He winces painfully. "And I can't…even see it." His laugh is another dry cough, and at that, I take a seat on the edge of hid bed, taking his hand._

_"If you're good and you behave, I just might bring it over tomorrow morning." I smile, although I feel more like sobbing my eyes out. When the hell did Collins get this bad? Last month? Seven months ago? A year ago? I've lost track of the days, weeks, months, years… Dates mean little to me now that I have nothing to really live for. "Also, it'll be on Buzzline in two days, at 5:00PM EST."_

_His eyes open in shock. "Buzzline? You…sold out?" Even through all this, he manages to berate me. How like Collins! "Mark, you…you shouldn't."_

_"What? Sell out? Don't worry, it's for a good cause." I pat his hand gently. "For AIDS relief agencies and moving you to a better hospital." I silence his protest swiftly. "Uh uh now. You took care of me when Roger left, so I wouldn't be a friend if I didn't do this for you. Never mind that it's Buzzline. The show's got a new look, new production staff – new everything. It's just like –"_

_"No matter how much you…coat a shoe with sugar, it's still…a shoe."_

_I quirk a brow, shaking my head. "Your metaphors are weak today, my friend." I smirk, all in jest. "Besides, I'm doing this whether you like it or not."_

_He smiles, squeezing my hand timidly. "Thanks, Mark. I mean it – thank you." He takes a huge breath, swallowing a lot of air in his thinning lungs. "So…where's your sidekick?"_  
_"Toby?" I laugh. "He's filming – as usual."_

_"What today?"_

_"Who knows? Maybe he's doing a piece on me – Hell if I know! I can never manage to keep tabs on that kid. He's got more energy than a Mexican jumping bean."_

_"Your…personifications are weak today…my friend," he offers feebly with a grin._

_I laugh aloud, patting his chest lightly. "Still got a great sense of humor, Gaylord."_

_"Stop calling me that…. Or I'll call you…Marcello."_

_I groan, pretending to gag myself. "I'm not a character in La Boheme, my dear Colline," I reply, calling him by another Puccini character's name. "Besides, I don't paint."_

_He looks slightly surprised. "Since when…did you become a professor on…Puccini? And…you've never seen La Boheme."_

_I grin. "Actually, I saw it a few weeks ago. Remember? I've got money now." I pat him again, just as tenderly as before. "I knew you liked it and so I've started to do some of the more 'cultural' things."_

_He brightens slightly, his eyes sparkling. "How'd you enjoy…the Metropolitan Opera House?"_

_I laugh. "Not as grand as the loft, but I admit, it was okay."_

_He laughs loudly, ushering a series of coughing fits to follow. I help him to steady himself and he grabs my shirt tightly, wringing it in his trembling hands that weakly attempt to control themselves. "I knew you'd…find something wrong with it…." He's smiling, faintly._

_I hold him close, gently rubbing his back. "Calm down, pal… Just relax. I can't have you getting worse because of my demented sense of humor, now can I?" I felt my eyes moisten with held tears. Collins was slowly withering away into nothing. He was like a rosebud destined to die, shedding its dazzling and dramatic decorated petals for thorns, making plant food for a forsaken weed-ling, which would vegetate out of his magnificence. God, I can be so pathetically poetic sometimes that sometimes I think I just might be a Puccini character – and then it makes me vomit._

_His arms wrap gently around me, holding me as tightly as he can – which is weak because of his frailty – and he lays his head on my shoulder. "Thanks, Mark… Thanks…"_

_I feel my throat tighten with restricted emotions. Damn it Mark; don't lose it now. "No problem, Gaylord," I reply, rubbing his bald head gently._

_"Visiting hours are over, Mark," I hear the nurse whisper, patting my shoulder gently. She turned to Collins, pulling us away gently. "Come on, Tom, you need to rest a little. You exert too much energy sometimes."_

_He sighs gently, trembling as we release hands. "T-tomorrow, Mark?"_

_"If you want, buddy."_

_"Yes – please…."_

_"Okay. Tomorrow then."_

_"Bring your film – please…."_

_I smile, hugging him once more. "You couldn't pay me money not to, if you want it. See ya then." I retreat from the room quickly, wrapping my black-and-white scarf around my neck loosely and pulling my mismatched coat around my shoulders, sliding my arms through it. This is the one day I didn't bring my camera to film Collins. Lately, I've been filming everything with a constant drive to complete more and more movies, make more and more money, and give it all away to charities. In fact, I only have about thirty dollars to my name at the moment (Toby has some money too, in case we're in a jam). I took the $35,770 that Alexi Darling and crew paid me for a film I did for them, sent half of that sum to Friends in Deed to give away as they desired (I have great faith in the director there who's a good friend of Collins'), put the other half towards a better hospital for Collins along with treatment specialties for him to get better, and kept the remaining $30 for myself to spend on food, etc, for the week. I know, I know – I'm a sell out for giving Alexi Darling just what she wanted. But, if I hadn't, how could I live with myself? Collins is dying and there's nothing else I can do for him but this._

_As I exit the building, I run smack into a man who's headed towards the hospital, knocking me down on my rear end with a thud. I shake my head, settling my glasses back on the bridge of my nose and look up in time to see a lithe hand offered to me. Suddenly, the stranger's eyes meet with mine and I freeze, nearly jumping out of my skin – Roger!_

_Good God, I almost don't recognize him! The only way I'd truly know it's him is by that funky smile and authentic leather jacket of his. Otherwise, everything's changed. He's wearing some kind of weird contacts that make his eyes look a dark hazel color; his hair hangs down below his ears and is darker brown with a thin highlight of blonde running through it; and he has a goatee now, which is blonde and thin. He reminds me of someone from earlier in the '90's and strikes me as having sold out as much as I have. From the look in his eyes as he helps me stand, much has happened since the last time we saw each other._

_"R-Roger?" I ask, shaking my head in disbelief. "What the…hell are you doing here?"_

_His eyes narrow slightly and he folds his arms, shrugging indifferently. "I got a call…"_

_"From who? And how? Who has your number?"_

_"Some kid…. Tony or something…"_

_"Toby?"_

_"Yeah, whatever."_

_I nod, making a mental note to kill him when I get the chance. Also, I should ask him where the hell he got Roger's number! I don't even have it._

_"Anyway, I saw some of your films…." He choked on the words, lowering his gaze and letting his arms drop, defeated. "How's…Collins?"_

_I sense the worry in his awkward stance and I gesture him towards the clinic. "He's in shithole—I mean room #12A." Honest mistake with the way the "hospital's" set up. "He'll be moved to St. Vincent's tomorrow morning."_

_"Shit…. How can he afford to pay for that?"_

_I narrowed my eyes angrily. "As if you care… But I'm paying." I stuffed my hands in my pockets, attempting to find an excuse to leave. I had no desire to talk to him again – not after how long he's been away without as much as a phone call or postcard or letter or anything._

_He looked up, surprised. "…How…?"_

_"I sold out, okay?" I snap, turning to walk away. "Do us all a favor and get out of town soon, so we don't go getting our hopes up again." I spy Toby standing to the side, filming. I push his camera away hastily, growling, "You know when I don't want film…"_

_He looked startled and immediately shut off the camera, stuttering a reply. "S-sorry…"_

_"Hey!" Roger yelled, moving a few steps towards me until I spun around to face him._

_"What?"_  
_"What the hell's the matter with you? You go into a fuckin' relapse because I'm gone; you try to commit suicide with Advil because you think your life's not worth a damn, but you're making more money than my entire band would in a year combined; and you walk away when I've come back home to apologize and ask you to forgive me! Is that how you pictured my return, or is it not good enough for your final draft? Why not just throw it on the cutting room floor with every other piece of garbage you film…" He glared at Toby. "Or maybe have your little lackey get it all on tape and maybe he can make a buck or two besides it always being just you who gets the credit."_

_I glared back, my eyes red with anger as I stammered for a reply, "So you've finally seem all my movies, huh? What made you decide to see them after nearing a fuckin' year of being away from 'home'? Was it the fact that you missed me? Or are you still trying to hide behind your defenses?" I sigh, trying to contain my anger. "Either shut the hell up and apologize or get the fuck out of NYC forever. I don't know why you keep coming back like this – you just make it worse by doing that. Every time this happens, I go into another relapse."_

_"And sell another film, huh?" he barks angrily._

_I feel my lips tremble. "Fuck you, Roger. Go to hell."_

_"Ditto, pal." He walks off, shrugging his jacket securely. I walk off, wrapping my coat around myself. Toby stands for a minute, but then I feel him join me by my side._

_"What was that all about? Why'd he come back?"_

_"Who the fuck cares?" I ask, nearly yelling at him. "You're the one who asked him to come!" I pause, realizing my mistake, and turn to him and pat his back. "Let's go out tonight. I can't allow myself to fall prey to the Roger-relapse-syndrome. It sucks."_

_He nods, apparently understanding. If there's one thing I really like about Toby, it's the fact that he never argues with me. He's like a little puppy – following me around on an invisible leash and listening to me whine and bitch constantly. Of course, he has his moments where he'll get snappy and depressed and whathaveyou, but he's never been as abusive as Roger used to be. Hm, maybe I've found a new best friend. Maybe that's a good thing, considering my old one was a fuckin' asshole._

_We walk towards the loft in silence now, as I catch Toby filming the streets out of the corner of my eye. I smile lopsidedly – just slightly – because I see so much of myself in him…. _

_My thoughts drift to my new film that's going to be showed tomorrow night. It's the same one that I made for Buzzline. Ugh, that thought makes me queasy whenever I think about it. First off, the film's not one of my best – it spun out of my mind accidentally, within ten or fifteen minutes. It's about me, of course, and one of my better days where I went over to Maureen's and filmed a day in the life of a performance artist type shit. It's pathetic, and I doubt anyone will enjoy it – except Maureen, that is. She'll eat it up like it's fettuccini alfredo. But, to me, it's a waste of time. That's why I'm working on my next film already; I'm trying to make up for what this new one will lack – love. I filmed the new one like a robot, knowing I'd get paid in full as soon as it was done, and the sooner the better, right? I mean, Collins isn't getting any better, AIDS charity donations are at an all-time low, and I'm more depressed than I've ever been; so anything to get my mind off my problems and get me out of the house is good, right? Don't answer that…_

_We reach the loft and I enter, letting Toby go in first. I look around and notice how things've changed since he moved in with me. The old folding table and chairs are still there – I couldn't bare to give them away; where my small little futon used to sit, now sits a mattress propped up on wood; there's another "bed" in the other corner, which is blocked off by some cheap curtains, which are greenish-checkered or something – that belongs to Toby, since he likes privacy more than I do; we now have a small refrigerator that I picked up on the street one afternoon – it holds a few slivers of meet (in case we ever decided to cook rather than go out – that'll be the day), some bagels and cream cheese (mmm…), bread, a few cans of soda, tea, and other various food-related products which we rarely touch, but which add a sense of aliveness to this place; and then there's the main change – the picture walls. _

_What are the picture walls? Oh, I don't even know how (or why) Toby ever convinced me to start this, but I must admit, it was a good idea and I really enjoy adding to the décor every once in a while – when I've got time. The picture walls are the walls (and ceiling) of the loft, which are now (thanks to Toby's wonderful idea, which, at the time, I'd thought mad) covered with still shots of all our friends – pictures taken either by myself or by Toby, who's really quite good at handling a still camera (don't tell him, but better at that then with a moving video camera). There are pictures of every moment of our lives – separate only to us, since he has a few friends I don't know (I'll know them soon, since he knows all mine). I have old pictures of Maureen and I, April, Angel, and Mimi, and then newer ones of the whole gang together, ones of Roger and I – hugging, Maureen and Joanne – kissing (among other things), Collins and Angel, Collins and me and Roger, Benny and all of us (wow, imagine that!), and even a few of Toby and I. I have to admit, I have more pics of Roger and I than of anyone else – save Collins, who owns a corner of the wall for himself and Angel. Not that I miss Roger, though…. Hell no…._

_"Mark?" I hear Toby's voice, knocking me out of my memories._

_"Huh?" I close the door, moving to sit on the table._

_"Should I call Maureen and Joanne up and invite them out tonight as well? Joanne's off work today, remember?"_

_I nod, somewhat absently. "Sure, why not? I could use some lesbian company about now."_

_He smirks, laughing. "I'm not sure I'll ever get used to that…"_

_I make a face. "What? Toby, you live in New York – how the hell can you not be used to that by now?"_  
_He chuckles, blushing, brushing back his hair. "I dunno… It's just kind of awkward."_

_I smile, nudging him. "Yeah, tell me about it. I used to date Maureen, remember?"_

_He nods. "I'm gonna go take a walk around town for a little while – gotta buy a present for –"_

_"Miss Jacqueline?" I interrupt, pursing my lips at him. His girlfriend's name is Jackie West, but I've given her the pet name of Miss Jacqueline._

_His face is beet red now. "Shut up, Mark."_

_I chuckle, slapping his back and pushing him towards the door. "Get outta here and get shopping."_

_"Wanna come?" he asks, pausing at the threshold._

_"Naw, I'd be poor company with the mood that's taken hold of me."_

_He takes a step back towards me, unsurely. "You gonna be okay, Mark?"_

_"Who me?" I force a smile, trying to remain happy. Think happy thoughts, Cohen. Happy thoughts… "Yeah, sure."_

_He nods, somewhat reluctantly. "Meet you at the Life Café at eight then?"_

_I check my watch. It's 6:50PM now. I grimace slightly. "Let's eat somewhere else tonight, okay? Too many memories at the Life Café… How about The Blue Rose Bar on 7th and C?"_

_"Okay. At eight then?"_

_"Yeah."_

_He heads out the door, then sticks his head back in momentarily. "Call Maureen and Joanne before you leave." I wave him off and he leaves, but once again sticks his head in the frame. "I called him for your own good, Mark – I was worried."_

_"Go, go, go," I reply, still waving him away. "Remind me to thank you later…much later."_

_He rolls his eyes, shutting the door softly. I hear his footsteps retreating down the stairs and the door opening below and closing just as quickly. He's gone. I'm alone._

_I glance over at my camera, which sits idly on top of the fridge. I haven't picked it up all day, and now something tugs inside of me to do just that. There's something I need to film…._


	3. The Better Days

CHAPTER III: My Confession and His Reaction

***Couple-o-things: The Jane Street Theatre is a real live theatre, where "tick, tick…BOOM!" is playing currently. Lyrics are from "The Better Days" and "Back Again" – two original Tiara Louise Rea songs. ::smile:: That means, don't steal 'em…though, for the record, why would anyone _want_ them? Ah well…on with the story…***

CHAPTER III: **The Better Days**

Around 3 weeks later…

"Hello, everyone." I wave to a crowed audience as I stand in the middle of the Jane Street Theater, speaking timidly into a microphone that blares the sound to the waiting multitudes. "I'm Mark Cohen, and –" The audience erupts into applause and cheers, and I glare at Toby, noticing he's started it: as the usual ringleader of such things, I gotta love him. "Thanks, thanks, but please – stop!" I smile, laughing softly, embarrassed. "You haven't even seen the film yet, guys, so shut up." After another moment or so of soft applauding and giggling, they hush and I continue. "As I was saying, I'm Mark Cohen, and this is my newest film, entitled _Confessions_. You'll see what it's about when I roll footage." I glance around the theater, searching desperately for the one person I pray will be there. C'mon, Roger, where the hell are you? "I guess I just wanted to stand up here for this one and actually start the film – more-or-less – myself, since this is the one thing I'm actually extremely proud of. So, I guess let's just get this thing started." I sigh, not seeing him anywhere. Damn it… "So, without further ado, I give you _Confessions_." I step aside, wheeling the microphone away with me, nearly tangling myself in the wires.

So, what's this big film about, you ask? Well, it's a secret. In fact, I haven't told anyone anything about it. All my "fans" have been stopping me on the streets asking what the deal is with my sudden secretiveness, but I haven't budged. Maureen begged me – even offering herself as my personal sexual slave…hmm…damn, why didn't I take that offer again? – and Joanne pleaded with all her lawyer tactics, but no one's seen a mere flick of the reel. It's so secret, because I wanted this to be a surprise for…yeah, Roger. Who else?

Let me relate a little bit of what happened the night that I last spoke with Roger…

Toby and I – without Maureen and Joanne (when I called, I heard a hard-breathing Maureen and hung up, figuring they were "otherwise occupied") – ended up going out to dinner at a club outside the city called _Scores 'N' Doors_. It was actually so far out of the city that it was in New Jersey. At any rate, Toby and I sat down at a table in the very back, ordering tea and steaks. Oh, it'd been so long since either of us had tried steak that our mouths were watering before they set the plates down. I nearly inhaled the meat without even picking up a knife or fork – who needs utensils anyway? As we ate, we watched the opening band onstage, tapping our feet to the rock 'n' roll music that poured from the electric guitars.

I remember glancing over at the poster on the wall, advertising the band that was playing. The opening group was called "Tied to the Tracks" or something equally as cheesy. I let my gaze wander up to where it displayed the centerpiece for the evening – The Forsaken II. My heart stopped for a full moment before I felt my eyes jerk frantically to study the stage, falling on the form of a lithe musician, setting up his electric guitar and nodding to his band mates as they replaced Tied to the Tracks. My hand reached out, instinctively grabbing Toby's sleeve, tugging on it and making him gawk like I was.

"Toby…?"

He glanced once and then continued with the remainder of his steak, nodding. "Yeah. Why else would we be eating in New Jersey?" He smiled.

I frowned. I remember feeling betrayed for a second time that day and nearly stood to my feet, but it was at that time that Roger – standing center stage – spoke into the microphone, glancing out at the audience. "Hey everyone. Name's Roger Davis, and we're The Forsaken II." Toby pulled me down to my seat and I growled angrily, vowing to slip out somehow. I wasn't in the mood for Roger's lamenting tunes. "I guess we'll start our set tonight," he continued, oblivious to my presence, it appeared, "with a showstopper that we wrote a while back called Back Again. Enjoy it." He strummed his guitar once before nodding over to the drummer who counted off, and they began, whirling into a headstrong beat with rhythmic drive that seemed to make everyone want to throw something. I smiled just slightly. I'd never remembered him being so hardcore before.

"Every day, we try and we try again.

And, every day we go back to square one.

When every day seems to blur into darkness,

I try and see that every day's a fuckin' mess.

Now that we're back, we're back again –

Back to that place we both ran from.

Now that we're back, we're back again –

Back into slumbering silent ponderings."

A hard guitar riff followed, and I groaned, shifting in my seat with folded arms. Didn't Roger write love songs, once upon a time? Now, he was writing bullshit crap that seemed to be more intended to get people in violent moods than to reach people, as he'd once attempted to do. I stared up at him, my eyes dissecting his every nuance – he'd changed so much. That goatee with long, now unruly hair made him seem like some kind of teen idol, lost from '70's pop stardom. The way he dresses is fake, too – he wears a clingy t-shirt that just so happens to show off those muscles of his to the entire population of teenaged girls who've snuck into this club, and his pants don't leave much to be desired. Man, he's worse off than I am.

"When we try to mend what we have broken,

We soon find that we can't fix ourselves.

Lost in the foolish lover's tiff,

We love and we lose again.

Now that we're back, we're back again –

Back to the loneliness and grief.

Now that we're back, we're back again –

Back to what we could never try to reach.

And, when life hands you a lemon –

Just shut up and eat the damn lemon!

Life is screwed, and so are we,

But at least we've got sense enough to be.

Now that we're back, we're back again –

Back to the heartbreaking reality.

Now that we're back, we're back again –

Back to the places we could never keep.

Now that we're back, we're back again –

Back to the harsh, heart rendering, fuckin' reality.

Now that we're back, we're back again –

Back to the loneliness, the bitterness, the hatred of life's expectancy.

Now that we're back, we're back again.

Now that we're back, we're back again.

Now that we're back, we're back again."

I sighed, sitting up in my chair, preparing to leave. Toby tugged on my sleeve, whispering, "Just give it a chance, huh?"

I groaned in reply, settling back in my chair – but I wasn't happy about it. I mean, how many times were the lyrics going to repeat like that? It was bordering on annoying.

After a few more repeats of "Now that we're back, we're back again", the song ended with a bang and the tiny audience that'd been there seemed to have doubled. Was there something I was missing? As the crowd cheered and hollered, I just surveyed them – what the hell was so special about that song, anyway? _I_ could've written better. Shit, I probably _have_ written better – and I don't write.

"Thanks," Roger replied after the people calmed a bit. He smiled softly and turned to glance at his band mates. "Okay, my friend don't really want me to do this, but I made them a deal backstage: either they let me do an older song of mine or I quit." The crowd laughed. I shrugged, indifferently biting into another piece of steak. "So, I'm bringin' out the old acoustic guitar for this one," the drummer booed jokingly, "And…Hey, that's not nice Jarrid." He tossed a leftover pick at the drummer, hitting him in the head. "As I was saying," he strummed the guitar, tuning it precisely, "I'm gonna play something a little older – something I wrote during 'the better days'. In fact, the title of the song is 'The Better Days'. Hope you enjoy it."

Now, here was the Roger I remembered. He sang a song I actually remembered. The soft plugs of acoustic arpeggios filled my ears with nice, relaxing music. I glanced over at Toby who smiled and nodded at me. Damn it, why does he have to be right about the whole 'give him a chance' thing?

"Sometimes life gets in the way

of what really matters day to day.

And when life gets in my way,

I remember all the better days.

The better days

The better days

The better days

The better days

When I crawl into slumbering happiness,

I close my eyes and just remember

The better days."

A soft tapping against the cymbals entered here with a little bass guitar lightly in the background. I was smiling. I couldn't help it. Seeing Roger as he was back when we shared the loft together – it seemed like a century ago – made me realize just how good of friends we actually were then.

"When lovers cry and babies die,

the streets are lined with tears.

But when babies grow and lovers lose,

what's left to feel but all my fears?

As I kiss your lips,

I long for times gone by.

When I kiss your cheek,

I remember why I cry.

The better days

The better days

The better days

The better days

When I see you standing by my side,

I close my eyes and imagine

The better days."

Oh damn it, Cohen, don't do that! I felt a little droplet of water on my cheek and I struggled to stop the rest of them from following. But again, a flow of emotions was little less than close at hand. The back of my eyes burned as I tried to glance at something else – don't remember April and Mimi – don't remember Collins on the hospital bed – don't remember Maureen and I, as we used to be – don't remember Angel's funeral – don't remember the friendship with Roger that isn't there! But I did. That damn song! He'd written it shortly after April's funeral, and played it for me as I'd cried then. I cried now. It was just one of those memories I wanted to forget, but which being around Roger would always bring back…

"As I stand at the edge of eternity,

I glance towards the other side.

And when I finally take that leap,

I know I'll be all right.

Now, there's no more lovers here,

And now there's no more feelings here,

And now there's no more happiness,

And now there's only emptiness.

The pain of love, the pain of love,

the pain of everything I reap –

it's not worth the pain, it's not worth the pain –

the pain I try to hide from me.

And now that all my friends

have gone and left me high and dry,

I feel betrayed and not relief,

as I long for that other time…

The better days

The better days

The better days

The better days

When I once again can take

the time to go back to

the better days,

there'll be better days…"

I slipped out of my seat and began to walk outside. On my way there, I bumped into numerous people, causing a bit of commotion. If it wasn't enough to see a groan man sobbing his eyes out like a little child, it was worse to see that same man lose his sense of balance as he stumbled from the restaurant like a drunkard.

Once outside, I went to the back alley and leaned up against the wall there, sliding down it until I was sitting on the cold ground. I started to berate myself – not another relapse, Mark, not again. But by then it was too late. I just felt horrible, and the feeling had come out of nowhere. Sure, Roger and I had fought earlier that day, but we always fought, and it had been so long since he'd be home at all that I was shocked at my own feelings of remorse over this. I mean, it was just Roger. 

I couldn't stop the tears, as I began to think of everything bad in my life thus far – my past relationships that had flickered briefly with a tiny spark until they were extinguished by my own faults; my unfinished films – the ones I hadn't sold to anyone, the ones that still lay entirely on the cutting room floor; the people I'd lost along the years – April, Angel, Mimi, soon to be Collins; the things I'd always wanted to do but never did; and selling out for money. What a pathetic sham of a man I'd turned out to be. What a stupid loser. What a moron.

"You okay, Mark?" 

I heard the voice, but I didn't look up, shaking my head defiantly. "No." I was about to glance up when fear seized me. It'd been my natural reaction to say 'no' and avert my gaze, but that voice…that voice was one I knew. "Roger?"

"Yeah, it's me." He knelt down in front of me and handed me a box of tissues.

I laughed, somewhat bitterly. "Thanks," I whispered, blowing my nose quietly. He stood up and moved away a little. I knew he was trying to figure out what to say. So was I though, so we were getting nowhere. "You taking an intermission?" I asked, glancing up feebly.

"Sort of… I got booed off the stage." He shrugged at my wide-eyed shock. "It seems they don't like the softer side of The Forsaken II."

"How could they not like it? They must be out of their minds."

He smiled, lowering his gaze. "Thanks."

I lowered mine, too. "Sure." As I stood to my feet, another moment of silence followed. All I wanted to do was ask him to come home, but how many times had I done that already? And how many times had he said no? "Hey, Roger?"

"Huh?"

"What made you play _that_ song?"

"Uhh…I don't really know. I guess today's been one of those days where I don't feel attached to anything." He paused and then turned to face me again, his gaze serious. "You know I came back to apologize, right?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

"So…?"

"So what, Roger?" I asked, somewhat angrily wiping away the remainder of my tears.

"Forget it." He began to walk away but stopped short, turning back swiftly. "What the hell happened to us?"

It was such a simple question, and yet one that didn't have much of any kind of answer. "Life," I replied quietly, tossing the used Kleenex into a trashcan. He sighed, dropping his gaze. "Y'know," I continued, "you haven't said it yet."

"Said what?" He looked up, startled.

"Those two little words that make up an apology. Don't tell me you've forgotten how that goes."

He shook his head. "I haven't forgotten, and I am."

"You are what?" He looked away. "Damn it, Roger, why can't you just admit you're sorry? Can't you give me that?"

"I-I am…"

"Then say it," I demanded.

He looked up, anger in his dark eyes as he brushed back that long hair. "Fine. I'm sorry! There, does that solve all your fuckin' problems, Mark? Are you better now? 'Cause if you are, I guess that means the rest of us can be happy, too."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, wounded by his tone of voice.

"What do you think it means Mark? Don't you see how you are? You're so wrapped up in being something for everybody else that you're forgetting what really matters. You sell all your little films, make a big chunk of money, and then go about with your daily life, hoping and praying something bad happens to you so that you'll have something to document. Don't you think I can see right through you?" He took a step towards me, and I flinched, trembling. "I watched your films, Mark – I saw everything! The tears, the drama, the so-called 'confessions', the anxiety, the depression – but that's not you, Mark. Why don't you ever film the good times? Or film a confession that fuckin' means something!"

"This coming from a man who ran away for a year because his girlfriend died? I don't think I'll buy into any of that, Roger," I retorted coldly, turning away from him.

"You're such a sham!" he continued angrily, pushing my back.

I spun around, huffing in rage. "Look in the mirror, Roger! Look at what's become of you! Maybe then you can tell me who I've become, but until you actually figure yourself out, leave me the fuck alone." I pushed him, my arms strong enough to send him spiraling into a pile of garbage. He looked up at me, shaking his head to clear it, and it was then that I felt remorse. I missed Roger terribly. I missed having him around to tell me not to film. I missed telling him to take his AZT. I missed listening to his ramblings on the guitar. I missed going out to dinner and skipping out on the check, because we were too poor to afford a decent meal. I missed telling him about my horny dreams of Maureen and I. I missed teasing him about the good 'ole days. I missed _him_. "I-I'm sorry, Roger," I whispered, holding out my hand towards him.

He narrowed his eyes at me and stood by himself, ignoring the outstretched hand. "_I'm_ not."

I felt my lips quiver. Why the hell did he like to torment me? Why couldn't he just admit he was so scared of life? I became enraged then, and I felt blood surging through my veins. "Fine! I'm not sorry either. Y'know why? Because I meant to say every damn word you got to say first. You're a sham, I'm a sham – everyone in the world's a sham, Roger! The only thing worse than being a sham is being someone who's afraid to admit it."

He growled, and I thought I saw tears in his eyes, but it was hard to tell with the way his eyes were narrowed. "I'm not a sham."

"You're not?" I motioned to his goatee, his clothes, his everything. "Then what's all this? You didn't always look like a washed out version of a '70's teen idol, Roger! I didn't use to confuse you with the sell-outs who work at Starbucks."

"Don't talk to me about selling out, Mark, because you've done that well enough for us both."

I pushed forward, tackling him with all my might, and we landed on that same pile of garbage bags and trash. As we wrestled, we continued to fight verbally. "I only sold out because Collins needs help! What's your excuse?"

He tore at my hair and punched me once, really hard, on my right cheek. "Shut up!"

I somehow managed to hold his arms down for a split second before giving him a good right hook to his jaw. "You don't have a fuckin' reason, do you?"

"Shut up!"

"Just admit that you sold out for the money, Roger. Admit that you've become everything we always worked against! You're the mainstream now, aren't you?"

"Mark, I'm warning you –"

"You're one of them now, huh? You couldn't take the not-being-popular in Santa Fe, so you sold out to the first record label producer who offered to pay for your meal one night, right?"

He picked me up off the ground by my collar and threw me down. I hit the concrete hard with a thud. "Fuck you, Mark!" he began, completely winded. Through this next monologue of his, I simply sat up and tried to collect myself, breathing heavily. "You don't know anything about it…. When I got to Santa Fe, I had to live on the streets for a fuckin' month before I even had what you wouldn't even call a decent meal. I started playing in bars to make money so I could survive, damn it! The whole thing snowballed on me and I ended up giving into a record deal and a tour and whatever else that asshole of a manager did to me! He put me with druggie band members who can't stand me, because I keep clean, and he ruined my life!"

I faltered in speech for a moment. "You didn't have to sell out, did you?"

He glared. "You don't know what it's like, Mark, to have no control over your life, never know what's going to happen next. You haven't even been out of the state for Christ's sake!" He turned from me, brushing back his hair, which had been strewn over his face.

I stood up slowly, feeling my cheek throb in pain along with the rest of my body. Standing there, I saw him at his most vulnerable. I stepped up closer and was about to say something, when the drummer I'd seen earlier came rushing out into the alley. I recoiled.

"Hey Rog, the crowd wants you back out there, man," he said, giving a glance or two to me.

Roger looked over to him and then shook his head. "I don't feel like it."

"That's tough, pretty-boy," he continued, taking Roger's arm, "because we've got a show to –"

"Fuck it, Jarrid, I said I don't feel like it." The way he glared down at the drummer made me recoil more.

"Fine. You're fired then."

"I was about to quit, anyway," Roger retorted, pushing Jarrid away. "I'm glad to be rid of all you." He glanced at me and then huffed off, out of the alley. I jumped, running after him.

"Hey, where the hell are you going?"

"I don't know, Mark. Get away from me."

"Why? So you can go live on the street again? Damn it, Roger, just stop a minute and listen to me!" I tugged on his arm and he finally stopped, spinning and cornering me against the wall of a restaurant. I began to shrink away from him.

"What, Mark? I've stopped and I'm listening, so what the hell do you have left to say?"

"I –"

"Wanna remind me how much I've sold out? Wanna remind me how Collins is dying over there in that damned hospital and there's nothing I can do?"

I shook my head, frantically trying to weasel out of his demented arms that surrounded me like bars on a cage. "Roger, I –"

He pushed against my chest roughly with one hand, steadying me with the pressure of it until it pained me. "Wanna remind me how much of a sham I've become or how I just quit the only paying job I've had in fuckin' years or how I'm so miserable and depressed that I can't even understand what I'm worth anymore? Or how about how I haven't even sent a letter or postcard home since I left NYC? Or how I hate myself more than you ever could?"

"Roger, I don't –"

Again, I was silenced as he pushed forward, arms to either side of my shoulders, keeping me trapped. "You don't what? Don't hate me?" He laughed bitterly, backing up a little. "Yeah, you fuckin' tackled me because you _don't_ hate me, Mark. Right."

"I don't, damn it!" I cried, rubbing my chest gingerly to try and smooth out the soreness. I just stood there for a minute, studying his form as he studied mine. At that moment, we both fell into the past and it took me a while to realize I was crying. I just fell down to my knees and sobbed like a child, bowing my head into the dingy palms of my hands, my shoulders twitching violently with each spasm of sniffles and gasps. Then, I felt a pair of arms surround me, covering my chilled form like a blanket, and I fell against him – my best friend in the world; the one man whom I could turn to for anything and everything; the man who'd taken me to that strip club; the man who'd taken me out of school that day to live a little; the man who'd shared an apartment with me for God-knows-how-long; the man who used to cling to me for all the support he needed in life; the man who used to be like a brother to me: Roger Davis. "God, Roger, I didn't want to…."

"I know," he said, cutting me off quietly as we hugged, sitting in the middle of some deserted New Jersey street, where people mulled by, oblivious to us it seemed. "I'm sorry too, Mark…. Jesus, I'm sorry…."

"Come home, huh?" I begged.

He tensed and pulled away, jumping to his feet. "I-I can't, Mark."

"Why the hell not?" I inquired angrily, slowly fumbling to stand up. "I don't fuckin' understand you, Roger…." I tore at the tears in my eyes, removing my glasses to do so. "I don't fuckin' get it…"

He sighed, almost helplessly, brushing his hair back. "I just can't." He looked at me a moment more as I replaced the glasses and then turned abruptly away. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me!" I cried, grabbing hold of his arm. We both paused for a moment before I broke the tense silence. "You know what, Roger? I am a fraud – a sham – a hypocrite – a fake – an imposter: whatever you wanna call me, but you know what; at least I don't run away from my feelings. At least I don't hide who I am. At least I'm real in one aspect of life, which is more than I can ever say about you."

"Fuck you, Mark," he breathed in fury through clenched teeth as he shrugged his arm away from me. "Just fuck you."

"Fine."

"Fine."

He stalked off and I stalked off.

Entering the bar again, I hastily grabbed my coat from the chair and remembered Toby, who sat staring me with a wide smile. "How'd it go?"

"Don't you ever call him again," I growled, throwing the coat over my shoulders and setting my jaw. I'd never been this upset before. "I don't want to ever fuckin' lay eyes on Roger again."

He shrank, shivering and slipped gingerly out of his seat, standing like an abused puppy. "I-I'm sorry, Mark, I –"

I raised a hand to silence him. "Y'know what, Toby? Just don't. I'm not in the mood." Glancing up onstage, I noticed his guitar – idle, sitting in the far corner, where it would remain for the rest of the night. In all his haste, Roger had forgotten it. That was a first. I turned to Toby, almost glaring. "Let's get out of here."

So, that's how it went – the whole frenzied scenario. And now, I'm standing in the wings of a theatre, waiting for my movie to play, fumbling for some kind of excuse to stop them from showing it until Roger comes. I only made this film because of what he said. The only thing that caught my strict attention from our last conversation was when he screamed, "Film a confession that fuckin' means something!" It cut straight to my heart then, because that's what I thought I had been doing. It cuts straight to my heart now, because I know I never did accomplish anything worthwhile in my entire life – everything's been like an opus of shame to me, or a song that never gets radio play. It cuts straight to my heart now, because I know now that what I've filmed is a meaningful admission – one that, if he sees, can make or break what thin strand of friendship is holding us together.

I peer out of the wing and sigh – he's not there. Waving my hand in frustration, I cue the movie projector and I see the white lines appear onscreen. Putting all my attention beside myself, I slink into the darkened audience and take a seat besides Toby in the front row, glancing over to him.

"He's not here," I half moan to him.

He nods and silences me with a "shh" or two. God, he's a nerd. The left corner of my mouth lifts slightly – just slightly – to reveal a kind of happy grin at this thought: he _is_ a nerd – just like I was at that age, I remind myself. But, where, I wonder now, is his Roger Davis – where is his solace and best friend who'll steal him out of somewhere he's supposed to be for a little lesson in life? Where is the person he can always turn to for trials, tribulations, lustful quandaries, ponderings on life, and everything in between? Hell… I just now realize that's me.

My smile widens.

I lean back in the comfy chair and squeeze the plush armrests with all my might to make sure I'm real – that _this_ is real, and hell it is! What a feeling…. If only I could share it with someone. But, alas, when I turn my head to tell Toby, I find him enthralled in my film – the one downside of having him as my best friend is that he's too into my work. He holds me up on some high platform of Godness; not that I really mind that, though. I rather enjoy it, but not when I'd like to share this with him. I grumble, turning my attention – albeit bitterly – towards my own film, knowing I'll hate it – I always hate to watch my stuff, 'cause I dissect it, like everything else until I begin to loathe myself for doing it. Somehow, I feel myself pulled into this one, though, and I actually – dare I say it? – enjoy my work.

It goes as follows:

MARK: (_Sitting in the loft, alone, on a single folding chair with legs crossed, staring into the camera. Tight shot of just his chest on upwards now.)_ "Hello. I'm Mark. I'm sure whoever sees the final cut of this video knows who I am, but that's just to clarify – I'm always clarifying everything. I'm in my early 20's – the prime of life – and I haven't done a damn thing that's worth documenting; or so a friend has recently told me. This same friend told me, 'Film a confession that fuckin' means something!' So, here I go.

"Confession: I'm a man with no talent whatsoever, but I continue to write these dribbles of film that seem to gain notoriety from the masses of those who enjoy it.

"Confession: I'm a sham and a hypocrite, and I seem to be blinded by the lights of yesterday, dwelling on everything but those things that truly matter.

"Confession:" _(Each word is drawn out and emphasized) "_I-don't-know-how-to-live! I _never_ knew how to live. But I thought I _was_ living." _(Softly) _"I have never lived.

"Confession: I'm a fraud, too. Every word in your thesaurus that matches 'fraud' will work for me, because I am everything that those words define.

"This, now, is my greatest confession…. I'm afraid of life." _(He pauses.)_ "Life is that big scary light at the end of the tunnel. Life is that monster underneath your bed. Life is when you get in line for a movie with your best friends so that you can talk in the back of the theatre. Life is holding a loved one's hand, while you feel your heart beating gently in time with theirs. Life is paying taxes and running naked in the wintertime through Central Park. Life is a summer cruise on the Pacific or a poem that touches your heart. Life is the clouds, sky, earth, the people, the faces, the animals, the lights, the nights, the days, the coffees, the drinks late at night, the deaths of close friends, the…" _(He stutters.)_ "…The wheels of a car – Mount Rushmore at dusk, the flying fish in the ocean, the kisses from your grandparents on holidays, the meaningless ramblings of television personalities, the movies that sell ideals… Life is being yourself and not being afraid to admit that you're only what you're made of. Life is a complicated piece of shit, and I'm afraid to admit that I'm still afraid of it. But, I did, and I am.

"A long time ago, I wasn't afraid –" _(He pauses)_ "– when I was five. That's when all our ideals aren't set out for anyone else but ourselves. We know what we want. We want to be astronauts or ballerinas or cooks or artists or rock stars – it doesn't matter. What matters is that we want to be who we want to be – not what society wants us to be. Somewhere in the life cycle, we grow up. Santa Claus is no longer a realistic image – he's just a drunkard who works at the YMCA every other month but December. The Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy disappear with Tinkerbell, Peter Pan, and Neverland, and we all become lost boys. Suddenly, the Wizard of Oz is not there to help us, but he's a terrifying portrait of society when we lose our way. All of a sudden, there are men behind the curtain, waiting to get us; ruby slippers glistening just out of our stretched fingertip's reach; houses falling out of the sky and smashing what hopes we once had of how to behave; and there are Kansas families who cry because the Wicked Witch kidnapped their children and fed them to the flying monkeys. Now it seems our dreams are that much farther away – just far enough that they've become intangible. Money becomes important and thinking less so. We figure out that the fastest way to get between two points is a straight line. We don't remember how much we used to love the curved paths that took us on all kinds of wonderful journeys into the unknown.

"Then, we screw up. We sell out and we're no longer who we thought we were. We're business executives, trying to make a quick buck or two at someone else's expense, when all we wanted to do was produce songs. We're exotic dancers just trying to make a living, when all we ever wanted was to be that ballerina with nimble legs. We're lawyers when we wanted to be hairdressers. We're performance artists who wanted to be actors on a musical stage. We're teachers when we wanted to be philosophers. We're…touring with gigs when we wanted to be songwriters. We're filmmakers who feel like we should give it up for something grander." _(He shakes his head with a sigh.)_ "We're _people_, damn it! We're all the same. Who's not afraid of that big bad wolf of a thing called life? Tell me! Who?"

I look around now and notice that the audience is just as into it as Toby. They're listening. I smile again. I watch my confessions continue….

MARK: "Confession: I miss my best friend. Roger Davis and I have been like brothers since we first met, and now that he's gone away – no thanks to me – I feel incomplete and lonely. Even with new friends who come, they can never match him. He's Polaris – the North Star that never moves and is always visible. He's that dream that's always stuck in the back of your head that you can't shake or budge. He's…. Well, damn it, if I get any more sentimental, you'd think I was in love with the guy." _(He smiles softly.)_ "I do love him – he's my dearest friend in the world, no matter how mad he makes me. I said a while back, to another friend, that I never wanted to see him again. Jesus, how wrong I was. I want to see him – right now. I want to step out from in front of this camera and just run over to him and apologize for him, because he can't seem to do it on his own." _(Another gentle smile.)_ "He's stubborn and inconsiderate most of the time. He's just as hypocritical as I am – maybe more so at times, although he won't admit it – and he's mean and hurtful. But, despite the downsides that every friend must have, he's that missing puzzle piece that I so desperately need to keep going – to keep living.

"I've never told this next confession to anyone. I could barely admit it to myself, but in order to come out with every confession inside, I cannot skip this one…."

I bite my lip and turn around, glancing frantically until my eyes rest on his face – he's here…. Oh sweet Jesus, he's here! I feel my heart begin to pick up it's pace and I sweat – profusely. I place my hand over my diaphragm, easing the pain slightly with a soothing touch. I turn back and watch as my confession continues still. I explain, onscreen, about the day April died. I force myself to give a fleeting look back to Roger, noting the unhappy expression and my heart sinks. This is just making it all worse.

Talk to him, I tell myself. Just go back there and take him outside, apologize and go home! Screw the movie and get the hell out of here before matters become ever more complicated!

But, I remain, instead. I don't know why, but I feel like if he doesn't see this movie, he doesn't know me at all and we can never go back to the way things were. These confessions were years in the making, building up until I felt them explode from inside my head, out my mouth.

I take in a long breath as I get to the part about Collins….

MARK: "Confession: the man who kept me sane through everything – Tom Collins – is dying." _(He pauses, trying to compose himself, but he's near tears.)_ "I've done everything humanly possible to try and detain this death, but I feel now that perhaps I'm just prolonging the inevitable…. This man doesn't deserve to die. He's the one person who's never done anything wrong in his entire life, and everywhere he goes, he gets punished. His lover, Angel – one of the best people to ever live – died a few years ago…. Collins watched as our close-knit family disintegrated. Roger left, Benny moved out with Allison, Mimi passed away, and I remained – however so dejected from life I was – and he saw it all. Then, the sickness took hold of him…" _(He clenches his jaw.)_ "God damn it! Why does everyone I know have problems? Why do I have to fuckin' go through this hell in order to just survive? And what's the big deal with surviving, anyway? Why do people want to live in this hell? I mean, the real Hell must be a close-call to Earth, because to me they're already one and the same." _(He shifts uncomfortably.)_ "Why do I continue to write these films, when I know they mean nothing to me? Every film I've ever made has been just another mask – well, add it to the list: that damnably long list that I keep adding to. There's my mask of indifference – the one I put on to tell people I'm okay when I'm farthest from it. There's my mask of happiness – the one I put on when everyone just wants to have a good time, and, even though I'm depressed beyond belief, I wear it with whatever's left of my dignity. Speaking of which, there's my mask of dignity – the one I wear to keep myself from being vulnerable – the one I wore when I told Roger to fuck off – the one I wore when I told Collins that everything would be all right – the one I wore when I told Alexi Darling I'd sign her contract, and when I did finally sign it, too – and the one I wear now: the one that protects me, shelters me, cares for me when no one else will." _(He laughs bitterly as he wipes angrily at a falling tear.)_ "Goddamn it, I hate life! I hate Alexi Darling, I hate AIDS and all diseases that kill those who've never done anything to deserve it; I hate passion and love and lust and sex and greed and money and power; I hate the people who sell out because their dreams seem suddenly too fuckin' far from reality – well, y'know what, guys? Reality is Hell. Hell is Love. Love is Diseases. Diseases are Death. And, _Death is Life_!"

I feel the slight pressure of a hand on my shoulder and I turn abruptly, startled by the softness of the touch, and find myself staring into Roger's eyes – those eyes that had scolded me a hundred times – those eyes that had hurt and been blinded and teased and taunted and flaunted and loved and cared and wounded and upset berated and chided and laughed and cried and danced and glowed and sparkled and-and…. God, Mark, just stop thinking.

I slip out of the theatre with him as quietly as possibly, although I note Toby's eyes watching us with a tender smile on his lips as he returns to the movie. Once we're outside, Roger pulls me into a hug – _he_ pulls _me_!

"You came…" I manage to choke out.

"Wild horses," he replies with a laugh. "God, Mark…. I hate you and love you at the same time," he whispers.

I laugh, biting my lip to restrain myself from crying – not this time, Cohen. "Well, which is the dominant emotion?"

He smirks, punching me gently in my shoulder as he pulls away. "Devotion."

I rub my shoulder jokingly where he hit me and bow my head with a slight blush. Geez, it's back to the old Cohen charm I guess. "So, do I get to hear an –"

He shakes his head, interrupting swiftly, "I'm sorry…"

I look up and nod. "Me too." I pause, ready to touch on the subject that I really wanted to for months upon months. "Come home." It's a plea – a restless plea for him to come back and be my brother again. It's an imploration for him to wound his pride for once in his life and just return, pretending that things are as they used to be, when we both know that's farthest from what the situation has become. "Please…?"

He bows his head with a deep sigh, and I know I'm not going to like what he has to say next. I want to tell him to stop – don't say anything. But, my voice catches in my throat along with the anxious lump that's been building there for days now – maybe months, years: who knows? All I know is that I don't want him to speak. Please God, don't let him say he can't come home.

"Mark, I can't." I feel my bottom lip tremble, but I hold everything back – returning to the 'good little soldier' routine. "Oh God, Mark, don't do that."

"Do what?" I ask, trying to seem apathetic, but I think it comes off as forged calm.

"Don't put on that mask of indifference. I hate you when you're like that, and I don't want to hate you."

I clench my jaw, taking in a profound breath. "Well, then, don't hate me…." I stutter a few times, trying to say what I want to, but nothing comes out right. "Look, I gotta get back in there to –"

"Mark, I'm sorry…I just can't. I didn't mean for it to –"

"Y'know what, Roger? I don't care. Do what you want." Anger. Pain. Rage. Suffering… "Don't come home. Come home. Whatever. I gotta go."

"C'mon, Mark, talk to me… I came back – again – to see you."

Frustration. Bitterness. Irritation. Animosity… "To do what? To apologize and then leave again? Remind me to thank you when I can fuckin' understand your shit, okay?" Sadness. Regret. Dejection. Destruction… I begin to walk away.

"Mark!" he calls out and grabs my shoulder. "Please, just…don't do this, okay? I don't want to go through anymore of these stupid-ass fights of ours that never seem to end. Ever since I left, we've become mortal enemies, and I don't want that – not at all." Sympathy. Empathy. Tenderness. Self-loathing… "I can't come back because of how I've changed… I'm not the same anymore. I went to Santa Fe to escape, and I became someone else there –" Anguish. Failure... "—Someone who I don't like at all, who I can never like, and who you'd never like. You're different, too, Mark. I saw it in your film today, and I see it now. You're not so weak anymore…" God, is he…crying? I see some tears glistening in his eyes, but I can't seem to believe they're real. He can't be upset, I tell myself. He can't be… "You've got new friends – a new life – a new career for Christ's sake! You've got everything you've ever wanted."

"No, damn it, that's not true, and you know it." Frustration again. I can't admit he's right. I can't…. And he's not crying…

"What else could you possibly want?" I am silent. He shrugs, smiling sadly with a heartbreaking but gentle half-laugh. "Mark, you've got fans! I mean, geez, you've got them lining the walls in there – it's a miracle I got a seat." Pain… "You've got friends and you've got new things in the apartment, so I hear… You've got it all. What more could you possibly want?"

I'm still silent. Damn it, Cohen, answer him! "I-I don't want any of this…." It's coming out all wrong, but I can't stop it. "God, Roger, do you think I wouldn't trade all this in if we could just go back in time to the old days where we were scrounging for a dollar to buy a candy bar? Do you think I'm so happy this way? You say you saw my film, but were you watching or just looking?"

"We can't go back," he replies. "There's no magical time machine to take us back to that Christmas night..."

"I-I know…"

"Then why fight it? Just live your life and I'll live mine." He pauses. I pause. The silence is thick in the air, besides the rush of passing cars on the West-side Highway. A few lights flicker in this darkness. "I'm going back to Santa Fe…"

"Moving there?" I ask, knowing the answer already, before I see him nod. I shake my head, putting on a smile for him. "Great."

"No, it's not great. But I have nothing else to do."

"You can come back to the loft. Your room's still available, y'know." I attempt to smirk.

"You mean, Tony –"

"Toby."

"—Hasn't moved in there?"

I smile a bit – a real smile. "He's with me in my room."

"Separate beds, I hope." He smiles.

"No. We have hot homosexual sex every night of the week, Roger – of course separate beds." I laugh, despite myself. "I told him your room was off limits…. Unless, his girlfriend comes over. Then, they go and have hot heterosexual sex in your room, which I can, so very unfortunately for me, hear through the thin walls."

He laughs, messing my hair. "Bet you heard April and me, too, when we…." Suddenly, he stops and trails off mid-sentence, and of course, I know why. April. He knows everything now. What a relief, and what a horror.

"About April, Roger…" I swallow. "Look, I'm sorry I never –"

"No, I know," he pushes it away, shrugging as his gaze settles on the ground. "Don't worry about it, okay? Times have passed…"

"So, you're not upset?"

"I was." He shrugs again, brushing back his hair. I know that gesture. That means, he doesn't want to talk about it. "But…"

"I'm still sorry."

He clenches his jaw and shakes his head frantically. "Look, I gotta get going."

I smile, sadly. "That was supposed to be my exit cue."

He looks up and we're both silent for a minute. "I'm gonna miss you."

"You'll call, right?"

He gives one swift nod of the head. "Right."

"I guess…I'll see you around then…?"

"Yeah…"

We're both hesitant to leave, but we both turn and go our separate ways. After only a few steps, however, I turn back and run over to him. "Roger?"

"Huh?"

I turn him and embrace him with all my might. "Take care of yourself, huh?"

I feel a few wet droplets on my shoulder as he pats my back heartily. Jesus, he _is_ crying… "You, too."

Then, after pulling away hesitantly, I make my way back into the theatre to watch the end of my film, feeling that perhaps I _have_ changed. Damn him for being right.


	4. Is This Real Life?

***One more thing: sappiness is my forte, and I'm damn proud of it! Also, Trinity Cemetery is a very real place in a very fictional setting. It's actually on 155th, but there are only about three cemeteries in NYC. So sue me. On second thought, please don't.***

CHAPTER IV: **Is This Real Life?**

After the premier of _Confessions_, at St. Vincent's Hospital…

"So, what'd you think of it?" I ask, turning off the television in Collin's room. I convinced one of the nurses, with all the charisma and charm I could muster, to let me in at this late hour to show him my film, and somehow it worked.

"Mark," he breathes. I see a few tears falling down his cheeks… "It was great…perfect…"

I smile, albeit sadly, as I take a seat on the edge of his bed, taking his hand in mine and rubbing it gently. "A compliment from you, pal, is better than one from anyone else."

"Even…Roger?" he asks, his eyes imploring.

I nod. "Most definitely."

"He saw it…right?"

I nod again. "Yeah." I sigh, shrugging. "He saw it."

"Did you…two talk?"

"Shh," I coo softly. "C'mon now, Collins, you don't really want to hear about that, now do you? I mean, you should be resting and –"

"Please…? Tell me." He's still crying. Damn it; make him stop – right now.

"I can't deny a face like that," I say, trying to be humorous. "He apologized and so did I and we worked everything out. But…"

"But?"

"He's moving to Santa Fe – for good. He promised to call, but somehow I harbor doubts about that promise."

"Why?"

I look down at Collins and shake my head. "I don't know… We're just-I don't know, not as close as we used to be – Hell, we're not close at all, anymore. He says I've changed and he's changed, and I guess he's right. We've all changed lately."

"He _is_ right…and you know that…"

"I know." I force another smile. "But, let's talk of something else until the nurse kicks me out. We're not going to dwell on the bad."

"But, Mark…" he trails off sleepily.

"What is it, Collins?"

He grasps my hand tightly, with more strength than I thought he had right now, and his eyes glisten with tears as I fight to control my own. "Don't ever do…anything like what you…said in the-the film… Okay?"

I was confused only for a few moments, until I realized that he meant my lecture on suicide. Around the 30-minute mark of _Confessions_, I spoke of my attempts at killing myself and why I wanted to do it again. But, somehow now, I don't want to ever do it again – not if Collins doesn't want me to. "O-okay…" I'm choking, lost in darkness as I watch the fire in his eyes fading.

"I love you, Mark…" he continues, tracing my cheek gently with his trembling hand. I grab it and hold it to my skin – damn it, I need to feel that he's still alive; that he'll _always_ be alive.

"I-I know," I reply, fighting my muscles so they won't let me frown, but I can't stop them. My tears slip down my pale cheeks and some run over his fingers there. "Oh God, Collins, I'm so sorry!" I cry suddenly, pressing the buzzer frantically for the nurse. "I'm so sorry…" She'll come in and everything will be fine. No, he's not dying. No, he's not crying – Collins isn't crying…. He's fine, damn it – he's healthier than I am, for Christ's sake!

"For what?" he asks, the pressure of his fingertips decreasing and I panic.

"For anything and everything I've never done or that I have done that hurt you or that I never thought of doing at all and I should have done or maybe things that I can't control or what I can but don't choose to or what someone else could and never did and never wanted to but should've or could have if they wanted to – or-or…Hell I don't know, Collins! I just…God, please don't leave me…"

Collins sobbed, his hand falling off my cheek. I grabbed it, putting it back there and stroking it gently. "Is that…what I'm…doing?" he asks, closing his eyes. My tears flow steadily now as I frenetically press the button for the nurse.

"Damn it! Nurse!" I call out hysterically, weeping as I do so. "Goddamn it; nurse, get in here – please!" I hold his hand on my cheek, tightly pressing it against me to feel his pulse as it beats so slowly. "You're gonna be fine, Collins…. I know you will. You're so strong and intense and intelligent and-and—" He struggles to breathe. "No! No, please…." I press the button twenty times at once, fifty – I don't know! Where the hell is she?

"I meant it…" he murmurs so quietly.

"Meant what?" My lips tremble as I feel the tears in my mouth, tasting that salty bitterness that I despise.

"That I-I love you."

"I know. Oh God, I know, Collins… I love you, too – so much that you'll never know." I swallow, shivering. He can't leave me; not now – not ever! He just can't! "You mean so much to me, pal, you-you just can't go and-and leave me, okay?" He just nods, moaning softly. "Jesus, you can't—you just can't, Collins…"

"Keep filming…okay?" I have to lean down to hear him.

"I will, but-but you'll be here to see them all. I know you will, I just know it…" I give up on the buzzer and pull Collins into my arms. He hugs me so lightly that I feel like I've lost him already. "Please don't die," I finally whisper, choking and gasping for words. "I don't think I can hang on much longer, Collins, I really don't. Without you here, there's nothing to hold me together. You've always been such a great friend… Remember way back when we first met…Tom?" I ask gently, jokingly calling him by his first name that I so rarely use.

"Y-yeah…"

"Remember how the first thing you said to me was, 'Friends call me Collins'?"

"Yeah…"

"I've always called you Collins, you know. I've always done that for you… And then…" I laugh, sniffling to be rid of these horrible tears. "…And then you hit on me – thinking I was gay." I smile, shaking my head.

"I…I re…member…"

"And I remember thinking how lucky I was to have such a good friend. And I've thought that same thing every day ever since. You always taught me to think outside the box, and I did damn it… Look where I am now, right? I mean, I have you to thank for it all. Don't even think of denying it, because you're the only one who's always believed in me, even when I didn't think I could believe. Remember when Maureen dumped me how you and Roger took me out for beers and tried to buy me a hooker? I'll never forget that…. And when I came down with the chicken pox at age 18 how you made your famous chicken noodle soup with that special ingredient in it? And when Roger left the second time and I felt alone how you came to stay with me until I felt better? And-and… Jesus, everything you've ever done for me, Collins. There's never been a bad moment with you. I've never once seen you upset enough to do harm – verbally or otherwise. I've never seen you get angry with me, no matter how stupid I may be sometimes, and I know I am… I don't know how you even put up with me sometimes, but you did, and you always seemed to have a moment to spare, even when I know you were really too busy for it. God, you've always been there, and I've treasured you always; maybe not as much as I should have, but I do now, and I'll never ever forget you… Never…." 

Suddenly, I realize that he hasn't replied to anything I've said in quite a while and I look down to find his eyes closed as if he were in a sleep, but his chest isn't moving up and down, as it does with gentle breaths. His arms are limply hanging, one draped over my shoulder and the other halfway crooked on the bed. His head rests against my other shoulder, and as I pull away, it slides back with one languid movement. I cradle him in my arms, moving so that his head rests against my chest, so that it won't fall back anymore. I bow my head and press my wet cheek against his head, crying with childlike ease.

The room begins to spin in a dizzying spiral, and I feel myself plummeting downward into the void of some unknown black hole that is intended to devour me – and it is. My head aches and there's this ball of anxiety that's growing inside my chest somewhere. It's deeply rooted, and has been so for years upon years: so long that I can't remember when I first felt like this. I'm drunk with apprehension and intoxicated with melancholy. I'm shivering and shaking and the ball keeps growing and growing until it's a huge knot, rising to my head, burning my eyes with it's thorns, making me remember everything I've never done. 

I've never done anything. That confession is one that I hate and don't want to admit, but it circles in a cylindrical fashion around my brain, sloshing in the darkness until I see the light. But, what does this light mean? Goddamn it, I don't know.

I realize faintly that I'm being pulled away from the bed and that there are nurses and doctors standing all around now, taking Collins' pulse, checking his tubes and needles and machines and trying to shock him back to life. I weakly cry out for them to stop hurting him – that he's dead and there's nothing they can do – that he's gone up to Heaven now where he belongs and it's all their fault, and I truly believe this. All the doctors who've ever tried to help have only hindered this poor man who's dead before me. He died because the damned scientists can't find a fuckin' cure for a disease that will eventually have killed all my friends. In the future, it might be that everyone in the world will be infected with AIDS and we'll all have to look forward to a painful and agonizing death that will spread out over years and years, and we'll suffer so much that we wish we were dead while at the same time praying for life. 

And I think now…what the hell is life?

It's black. Everything is black. My tuxedo, Toby's tuxedo, Maureen's dress, Joanne's pantsuit… Hell, even the sky is black today.

I keep thinking this isn't real. Nothing is real, I tell myself. Life is fake, these trees are fake, those black clouds that threaten to spill rain and thunder and lightning are fake, and if it rains today, so help me God, I will kill someone. Collins never liked the rain, and so it will _not_ rain.

I look over to the preacher I hired – some bum of a man who doesn't even care that the man who's being laid to rest today was just such an amazing friend. He doesn't know all the wonderful things Collins did while he was alive. He doesn't know about all the inside jokes we shared. He doesn't know that Collins' favorite color was blue or that his favorite food is soy burgers or that he loves the sound of the ocean and helping tourists find their way through the city. He doesn't know Collins had AIDS – doesn't care and wouldn't care if I told him. He only cares about money, which he'll get plenty of. I couldn't care less how much is left now – what the hell do I need it for? I'm a sell-out and a screw-up, and nothing I've ever done has ever made sense, so why should I ever keep the money that I've always despised. Roger was right to call me a sham.

The preacher's mouth is moving. His words are not important though. I can't seem to make myself hear them. I watch Maureen's mouth, moving as she steps up to give her elegy. Jesus, she's always had the prettiest little mouth – so dainty and pouty at the same time. I remember the taste of those lips against mine – strawberry. She always wore this strawberry chapstick, and I remember falling in love with just the scent of her. She would always tease me with those lips, playing little kisses all over my face but never letting them touch my lips until I was begging and pleading with her to.

I see Joanne now, giving a speech of her own, and I think to myself that she didn't even know him well enough to make any kind of speech. She's always absorbed in her work, never has time for Maureen, let alone for a funeral. I begin to hate her, slowly but surely, until it grows into a raging hate. I watch her move to stand by Maureen and they hug, crying to each other. Now, I hate them both. Let them cry and sob and wine. Just…let them do whatever.

My attention is caught by Toby. Hell, why is he even here? He never knew Collins like I did. He doesn't have the right to be standing here and he most definitely doesn't have the right to say anything! I want to run up there and kill him, stomp him into the ground, strangle the very life out of him. I need to release this anger – this rage – somewhere on someone.

"I know I didn't know Collins very well," he begins. He's so quiet and soft-spoken that I'm inclined to listen, "But he was always such a good friend to me. He never asked any questions. He just befriended me from the start… I remember when Mark first introduced us, I just kind of stood there and said hello. He came right up to me and just hugged me, slapping my back heartily as if I were his brother, which is what I soon became. He took me around the city that day, showing me all the sights and explaining the importance of them all. I felt like such a tourist. But, he was so sweet about everything he did that I wasn't embarrassed for long. Soon, I was laughing and joking with him and we became good friends. He's always been there for me, and introduced me to colleges and friends and…heck, even drag queens." He smiles and I cringe, grimacing, but his smile fades to a frown. "I never really knew him as well as the others here, but I sure was off to a good start, and I loved him all the same." He looks up to the sky, his eyes twinkling from behind those glasses. "I'll miss you, Col."

He walks back to stand beside Maureen and Joanne who pat him gently on his back. The preacher motions for me to come up and I refuse with a shake of my head, even as I gain odd looks from everyone. Yes, all those fuckin' idiots who came just for the free food want to see me whimper and cry up there in front of them all, but I won't give them the satisfaction – I _can't_. My legs feel like jelly and my heart has sunk so far down that it's in my stomach now. Tears burn my eyes, but I don't let them fall. My breath comes slowly. My head spins with dizziness as I feel Maureen leading me up to the front of the crowd. I struggle. _Goddamn it, I can't do this_! I push her away and she stares at me with wide eyes. 

_Mark, are you okay?_ I run, tearing at the tears that fall from my eyes. _Mark, come back!_ Faster and faster still I run, stumbling over dirt and graves and flowers and rocks and stones and trash and-and…Hell, who cares? Nothing matters now – not one damn thing, save my fear. My fear matters because it controls me. I'm racing with nimble feet, carried into the air, crashing, falling, and getting back up again. Arms hold me back, but I break free from them. Suddenly, I think it was a bad idea to have all those drinks earlier today. _Mark! Mark, please don't run off!_ It's Toby's voice, beside me now. He's holding me back, pulling me towards Collins' gravesite. _Goddamn it; leave me alone!_ I wrestle free, knocking him down to his feet, and I continue to run – over empty, unmarked graves that I fear could be my own; over flower patches that are rotting and dead because of poor upkeep; over paved roads with cars screeching to miss me as I ignore the 'no crossing' signs; and into people who are shoved aside as I race into my house: the loft – that secure little loft on the corner of 11th Street and Avenue B – my safe haven – my solace – the only true thing left in my life that I'm not afraid of – the only thing that won't change – my-my… 

I stop. Roger is here. Roger is here, standing before me. There are two suitcases to either side of him. He turns and…oh dear God – he's crying. He's home and he's crying. He's looking at me with those tear-filled eyes, not trying to hide them or wipe them away or berate me for crying too; he's just here and he's crying and I'm crying and-and…. Jesus, if I don't stop thinking I'm going to kill someone…

I don't even think about what I do – I just run to him, throwing my arms around him, pulling him close and feeling the sobs wrack his muscular frame against mine. Damn…I just need to feel him alive – to just know that he's okay and I'm okay and maybe then everything will be okay, because he's okay and I'm okay and-and… My thoughts aren't making sense. Damn it, they're scrambled like bad frequency waves on the radio, like eggs, like-like…

"Mark, calm down!" he cries, shaking me a bit.

I am dimly aware that I've spoken aloud some of my thoughts, accidentally. "Shut the fuck up!" I pull away, wrapping my arms around myself. "Goddamn you! Why the hell are you here?"

"I-I heard about…about Collins."

"Y'know, what about him, Roger?" My eyes are intense, fiery, red, bruised – angry…

He looks at me very strangely. Why the hell do I keep getting looks like that? "Mark… Tony called me."

"Jesus, Roger," I scream, my voice cracking, "You'd think you could get his fuckin' name right after all this time. It's Toby, Goddamn it."

"I-I'm sorry, Mark…"

"Y'know what? I couldn't care any less what you are, Roger." I nearly fall backwards, but I grab the folding chair to steady myself. As I stumble woozily into my bedroom, I'm aware that Roger follows. He places a hand on my shoulder, but I turn too fast, slapping his hand away roughly, stepping up to him with a low growl. "Don't you fuckin' touch me."

"Mark!" he cries, trying to balance me, but I tumble, nevertheless, backwards onto the bed. "Mark, what the hell's the matter with you?" He leans down and sniffs me as I try to smack him away, but my vision has become so blurred that I see a few dozen Rogers swimming around me in a pool of goatees and blonde tendrils and blue sweatshirts and those friendly twenty-four eyes of his… "You're drunk!" he scoffs.

"Am not," I half-chuckle to myself, almost giddily, as I lean back, still trying to swat the…wow – _fifty_ Rogers away.

"Damn it, Mark!" he berates, grabbing my wrists.

"Ouch…that hurts."

"You're gonna be hurting a lot worse tomorrow morning when you wake up with your head in the toilet throwing up all over the place. Jesus, Mark…"

"Fuck you. As if you care that I'm depressed…. Damn it, let me go…you-you…" I trail off, letting my hands go limp. I can't even move. I'm numb through-and-through. Any insults I come up with for him must be coming out of my mouth in the form of words because he's giving me that look again, and I can feel my mouth moving a bit. I must be talking. "…Egotistical shithole of a friend…who left me without a…a…"

"Mark, please, just calm down. If you keep this up, you're going to be bruised, too, from the way I'm holding your wrists."

"F-fuck you…." I open my eyes hazily, watching the visions of Roger dancing around in circles, whirls, cylinders, coils, twirls, loops, curls, tendrils, helixes, twists, corkscrews, whorls, spirals… "Why don't you go home?" I whisper with determination as my eyes sadden. He's taken aback and flinches slightly. Unknowing, I continue. "Go home, Roger." I let my head fall against the soft cushion that I weakly pray is a pillow and – Christ…again, everything is black….

I force myself to pry my eyes open and a dim light shines through something…something I can't recognize yet…but that something makes the light glare and shine and dance in my eyes that burn and throb with pain. I'm lying in my bed; I comprehend with diffused acknowledgment. That soft cushiony thing is still positioned behind my head and I sigh, leaning back onto it. It feels different now, just slightly…harder somehow and not as comfortable as I remember it being last night. I moan softly, feeling that knot tightening in my stomach and falling deeper down into…well, into places it shouldn't be. 

Suddenly, I'm aware of a face beside mine. Craning my head up, I see Roger, sitting on the edge of my bed, leaning back against the headboard, his eyes closed tightly and his mouth opened as he breathes gently in sleep. Turning some more, I note that his arm is the pillow I'm sleeping on and I raise my head, wondering just how uncomfortable that must be. Did he sleep like that all night?

As I sit up, I feel a swirling grossness in my digestive tract, moving upwards to my throat, burning and stinging it with some unknown liquid. It continues to rise and my eyes widen painfully in realization – I'm about to throw up.

I bolt from my position on the bed and race towards the bathroom, feeling the knot tightening and the taste of liquor and vomit rising in my throat as black dots play all over my eyes, causing me to stumble, and I'm faintly aware of how much the room is spinning and how much my head seems to pound with the pitter-patter of my own feet on the tiles of the bathroom floor as I fall to my knees before the toilet, gagging as I feel the vile flavor nipping at my esophagus as it all erupts forth from my mouth with a horribly disgusting sound – like some kind of weird moose call or something…. As I watch the vodka and liquor swirling together in a mix of throw-up, my body is wracked with tremors that cause my back to arch and my limbs to tremble violently. A few stray tears make their way from my eyes because of the intense pain this brings me, and I forget why I had been drinking yesterday in the first place.

I feel my hair being pulled back, out of harm's way, and I glance up to note Roger's holding it, slipping a rubber band over my disheveled mess of locks to keep it as far away from my mouth as possible.

"Whoa, Mark," he cries, turning my head back to the toilet and slanting it downward. "I don't want that on me, so let's keep it in the can, okay?"

I nod gradually and try to respond, but before I can even get a word out, I feel the nasty bitterness rising again, and as I groan, vomit explodes again, more viciously than the first time, and I gag on it, feeling more tears slip out of my eyes.

After about a consecutive half hour of this, my stomach pulls with emptiness and I stand to my feet, nearly toppling over, but Roger's hands steady me again. He hands me a towel and I wipe at my mouth as I feel him leading me out of the room.

"C'mon, pal," he whispers with a short laugh. "You should probably go sit down or get something to eat or –"

"No," I protest faintly, placing a hand on my brow as I'm helped into a folding chair. "No food…."

As I look up, watching him go to the fridge, I note his smile – so evidently etched into my memory. "I'll get you some water?" he asks calmly.

"O-okay…" I close my eyes, moaning quietly to myself. Jesus, he was right about being in pain. I feel like I'm dying over here, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. And now I recall why I drank to begin with, and I feel worse for remembering… I must feel that I need to make things worse, so I ask, "Is this permanent or temporary?"

"Huh?" he questions, grabbing a glass and placing it under the water.

"Your being here…" I ease the pain in my abdomen with a soothing rubbing motion. "I remember seeing two suitcases…or, I guess it could've been one, because there were about a hundred of you before I passed out…"

He chuckles slightly and brings the water in, helping me hold it steadily, for I realize my hands are quivering. "I don't know yet."

I nod, thinking perhaps he's setting me up for a big let-down in the future, but it doesn't matter – what matters is that he's here now, and he stood by me while I puked my guts out: if that's not a friend then I don't know who is. I don't answer him, but instead take the water and guzzle at it, trying desperately to fill that empty void in my stomach.

"Whoa, slow down, Mark," Roger, laughing, regulates my drinking with his own hands. "You'll choke."

"Will not," I mutter between sips – all that he'll allow.

After a few minutes, I take the cup by myself and set it down. Our eyes meet. "Better now?"

I nod with a shrug. "Physically or mentally?"  
His frown is one of desperation as he lowers his gaze. "Either or both."

"How about neither?" I don't mean to be this rude. I don't want to make it sound like I don't care he's here, helping me. I don't…but it just comes out this way. "I'm depressed and rotting from the inside out. How's that?"  
"Not good, I'd say."

I sigh. "What happened to Santa Fe?"

He takes a seat beside me on another folding chair, pushing back his hair swiftly. "What do you mean?"

"Well," I begin, turning to face him straight on, "You're sitting back in the loft – a place you haven't been for a year or so now. You're sitting here, talking to me, helping me out, getting me water – why?"

"Do I have to have a reason?"

"Well, frankly, yes – I'd like to hear one."

He crosses his legs, leaning back comfortably. "I told you why I came back – because of Collins."

My eyes narrow and my brow furrows. "Then, why'd you bring two suitcases?"

He stiffens, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was planning to stay in the city until after they buried him, but my train was late, so I missed the whole thing."

"Because of me, too," I remind him dutifully. "Don't forget about last night."

"I haven't." He looks up and I meet that lonely gaze. Damn it – he seems so lost, so…depressed?

"Roger, about last night… I just want to thank you for staying. I mean, you didn't have you, y'know."

"Of course I did," he whispers.

"No, you didn't. You could've left… Anyone else would've left."

His eyes narrow and he shakes his head swiftly, crying, "What the hell's the matter with you, Mark?"

"What?" my voice cracks.

"You think no one cares about you. Oh, poor Mark – he's always alone and depressed and nobody likes him."

"Screw you."

"No, why don't you listen to me for once first?" I'm silenced by that tone of his; reminding me just how weak I can be sometimes. "Do you know how many calls you got last night from friends who were worried out of their fuckin' minds? Maureen and Joanne called – twenty-five times. Toby rushed in –" I realize that he got the name right, "—a little after you passed out, running around like…well, like you would. He called the doctors, even after I protested numerous times; he called Maureen and Joanne and his girlfriend to tell them all you were okay. Then, he called Benny – of all people! – and told him about Collins. You wouldn't believe the way that kid can persuade people to do anything – he got Muffy –"

"Allison," I interject with a half-smile.

"—to come with Benny down to Collins' gravesite. Hell, Mark, if you think no one would've stayed with you last night, you're just fuckin' wrong."

I laugh lightly, bowing my head with a slight blush. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me, Mark. We're beyond thank you's, aren't we?"

I nod, just a little bit. "So, where is Toby?"

"He slept in my room last night…I mean, he slept in my old room… Anyway, I'm not sure where he is now."

I bite my lip gently with a small laugh. "How's your arm?"

He blushes a bit and shrugs, rubbing it. "It's okay…. Would've felt a hell of a lot better if you hadn't have fallen asleep on it."

"You should've wakened me."

"You were out cold, Mark. Not even a train hauling ass through the loft would've waken you."

I look up and smile at Roger, my heart swelling. There's this intense moment of silence, where no words are needed to be spoken. In this short amount of time, perhaps only a few seconds or so, we say everything we need to with our eyes. Mine have always been a giveaway, but Roger has never been like that – he's always trying to hide those eyes of his, fearful as I am – but more careful – that his secret's out, but now it seems he doesn't care: it's almost as if he _wants_ me to see that fear that's written plainly on his face. I see the scar April's death left in his heart. I see the hole in his soul that Mimi left there, and I see a wound that's deep cut inside that Collins put there. I see his own death wavering in the near future, despite my attempts to look aside from that fact. I see his fear that he's going to die tomorrow and leave everything behind, without anything to show for it, and I think, 'hey, isn't that my fear, too?'

With a quivering voice, I break the silence, shaking my head defiantly, "I miss him, Roger…. Goddamn it, I miss him…."

"Me too, pal," he replies sadly. "Me, too."

"So what the hell are we supposed to do?" I continue. "I can't stand this pain…. I can't stand the not-knowing who's the next to go, y'know?"

"I do." It's now his turn to bow his head, looking away. After a moment's pause, he clears his throat. "I saw the doctor yesterday…"

My heart stops and my eyes widen. Whenever Roger willingly goes to the doctor, there's something wrong – something horribly wrong. "Any…any news?" I manage to say, although my fear is given away in that shaky query.

"Just…just that I'm sick." He looks up, his eyes filled with tears. My heart is dropping, farther down in my stomach and even lower until I swear I'm not breathing nor is my heart beating. "Mark, I'm real sick," he whispers, clenching his jaw.

His voice continues, but I barely hear him. Something about AIDS and sickness and months and years and about love and loss and something mixed in there about me, too, but I don't hear any of it. I waver, my lip trembling. This can't be happening. It's all such a rotten nightmare. Roger…my best friend Roger Davis is not going to fuckin' die!

"…and so, I just gotta keep taking my AZT and hopefully everything'll work out…"

"Yeah…" is my only reply. I swallow, trying to think up something else. "Look, I-I got a lot of money left from my contract with Alexi, so if…if you need a good treatment center, I'll be happy to take you – no matter where, no matter how much."

He smiles, nodding. "Thanks."

"We're beyond thanks now, aren't we?" I ask, returning the smile as much as I can.

"Yeah…. Yeah we are."

"So, are you –" Suddenly, my stomach tightens and I feel liquid again rising in my chest as I bolt from the chair towards the bathroom…once again to throw up.

It's been a week: a whole week of having Roger back with me; a whole week of waking up to see him tuning with that same old guitar; a whole week to remind him to take his AZT and to write more than he wants to; a whole week to just be his best friend again. This week has been almost wonderful. If not for the fact that we went to visit Collins' grave together, I would have considered it to be the highlight of my present status. He's even become friends with Toby, if I can believe that. I think he only does it for my benefit, however…or maybe it's the fact that he's dying and he just wants more friends or to be more like Collins was – free with friendship and love. Maybe he doesn't even try to do anything; maybe it just happens this way. I've always been a firm believer that we choose our destinies by the options we select through life, but perhaps this time it's simply manifest destiny at work. I don't know, and for once I don't seem to care either. I just know that he's here and we're friends again. Isn't that all that matters, anyway?

It's like I'm clinging to him. I can't seem to let him go, no matter what his plans are for life. He keeps telling me that Santa Fe was the best place he's ever been to – I don't buy it. He says he's going to move back there in a few weeks – once I'm settled and back to "normal", I guess – and that he's going to make a name for himself in his own way, without the help of a manager or agent or anything like that: all his terms – I don't believe him. He says he's going to write more songs and made a demo CD by himself and send it out to record producers and label companies around the country – I don't understand him. He says he's going to help people, like Collins and I did, when he gets enough money together and that he's going to give to charities and do fundraisers for needy groups and give to the homeless and be like Santa Claus – I don't believe it. I don't believe _him_. And I don't believe a word he says.

I keep telling myself that he's not going to leave. I mean, NYC's his home, right? How could he leave all this behind? It's his life, his past, his present… I don't think I could ever really just pick up and leave it behind like he's asked me to do so many times recently. He said I should come with him and that we can get an apartment – or even a home – in Santa Fe. I'm not sure what he meant by that. I'm not sure exactly what he wanted me to say in reply, either. Did he really think I'd jump at the chance to leave all my memories behind? As bad as they are, I can't seem to leave them alone.

Lately, I've been walking over to Collins' grave. It's a long walk, but it gives me time to think – and for once, I know thinking is a good thing. Today, I'm again making the trek to Trinity Cemetery on Trinity Place and Pine Street. It's around thirty-three (long) blocks to walk, but as I said, I can think and interpret and dissect and obsess on my way. So, I guess it never seems like thirty-three blocks. Time flies, as Roger would say.

So, as I pass the Life Café and Tompkins Square Park with four different colored roses, I frown, watching the ghosts of my past flutter about there before me. Ghosts of Christmas, New Year, Valentine's Day, Halloween – each holiday means so much to me, but not for the reasons that it may to normal people. I watch Maureen's protest flash before my eyes… _Only thing to do is jump over the moon…_ I see Benny, excitedly telling us about his Cyber studio…_ You'll see…_ I see Joanne, busy as always, never really giving anyone the time of day if she can help it, hiding in her own way… _We're okay. I'm on my way!…_ I see Toby, forever trying to be like I am, to write that one good script, and to see life for what it is… _Sometimes, Mark, life is only what you see…_ I see Collins returning from MIT with Angel… _Today for you; tomorrow for me…_ I see Roger running away, returning, running again, and returning yet again… _You'd miss New York before you could unpack…_ I see Mimi, as she died, too young to ever realize the potential she had inside her… _I should tell you, I love you…_ I see myself – the ever-static Mark Cohen filming and disappointing the hell out of himself… _If you only knew! I spend so much time obsessing, it's depressing…_

I see some kids, playing basketball in Tompkins Square Park and I smile just a bit to myself. Collins and I would often go up there and play chess on their tables, sitting for hours underneath the shade of a lonely park at midnight, waiting for the guards to kick us out because it was after curfew. We would watch the homeless people take refuge in the dog runs, digging themselves holes to sleep in for the night so that the police's flashlights wouldn't catch them. He'd tell me how he'd always wanted to teach people – not to be a teacher at NYU, but to really reach students and show them the consequences of life's misfortunes. I'd tell him how I wanted to film like that – how I'd always wanted to inspire people with a movie reel; to show them that life was something to be treasured and appreciated, not gambled and negotiated away like a cheap watch in a pawnshop.

I'm away from all that now, I remind myself as Avenue B merges into Norfolk Street. I continue to walk, oblivious to the walk signs, which may very well read 'don't walk', but I couldn't care less at the moment.

My thoughts stray to April. Why I keep remembering her lately, I'll never know, but I can take a pretty good guess – Roger. With Roger home and no Mimi around, it reminds me of the days before April, when we were just two kids, running around and getting into trouble. But, I also remember the moments spent with just April, much to my surprise. At the time, I never thought much of it, but now, looking back on the days when we'd go out together to Washington Square or even all the way up to Central Park – I really miss that era of my life. She would take her cute little 70's VW Bug and drive like a madwoman up to wherever we were going. I swear, she was worse than taxi drivers, sometimes. But, she'd always get me there in one piece, no thanks to my cries of, "Please, slow down!" and "April! Oh my God, we're gonna die!"

I pass East Houston Street and head down Norfolk, recalling the time April had first let her guard down around me. As I said earlier, she was all rough-and-tough around me to begin with, and for a while I just assumed that was all there was. How wrong I can be sometimes. I remember it was November – sometime before Thanksgiving when she rushed into our loft and just fell onto the couch, sobbing. She hadn't seen me, because I was in my room, taking a nap (at that point in time, I had a job as a waiter to get money, and I only worked nights, so I had to take naps during the day to catch up on sleep). But, as I heard noises from the "living room" (as I foolishly referred to it at the time), I made my way out and was immediately taken aback by the sight before me – April? Crying? No….

"April?" I'd whispered softly, laying a hand on her shoulder. She jumped a mile in the air, craning her head to look at me through red, blurry eyes.

"Mark!" I'll never forget how distressed that cry was. It still haunts my dreams, even today. But, before I could comment about how sorry I was for whatever happened to her, she stood up, gaining a new sense of determination, and picked me up by my collar roughly. "What the fuck are you doing spying on me like that?"

I shivered a little and started to come up with dozens of excuses, all of which I traded for the good old-fashioned truth. "I was just taking a nap, April. I wasn't spying on you!" She eyed me, looking for any signs of weakness or lies. "I would never do that. I swear!"

That was the moment. When she saw the truth lit in my eyes – that was when she dropped me and flopped onto the couch again, shivering as she tried to hold in her tears. "Mark, do you ever feel like life isn't what you thought it would be?" When hadn't I? "I mean…when you were a kid, didn't you think sixteen was the biggest deal? Or twenty-one?"

I smiled then, sitting next to her, feeling, for once in my life, completely at ease around another human being. "Of course. We all did." I shrugged lightly. "But then when you reach those goals, there's really no other landmark."

"Exactly," she breathed, giving me a small smile. Ah, I will never forget it either, because it was the first time she really smiled. Her smile could light up a room. Roger had told me that a million times, but it was only at that moment that I truly understood him – and agreed with him, wholeheartedly. "I'm nineteen years old, Mark… And I'm waiting tables in Greenwich Village, living with roommates, who – no offense to you – don't know what the hell they're doing in life."

I shook my head. "We all know what we _want_ to be doing, April."

"That's not the same…." She sighed helplessly, folding her arms and turning away, her eyes clouding with tears. "Never mind."

I just sat there for a minute, studying her sleek form as she adjusted her position beside me, sitting on her heels. Though the pose was very unladylike, I remember thinking how beautifully feminine she looked that day. Maybe it was because she was crying, and I'd never seen this side of her before. Or maybe it was because she was saying things that I'd often thought about but was still, at the time, too afraid to admit. Maybe it was just…her – the way she moved, talked…hell, even breathed was amazing to me at that moment. It was just her.

I reach Seward Park at Norfolk and Canal and glance over my shoulder at the long distance I've covered. Cars roll down these streets, taxis honk, and people mull around me, bumping into me and hitting me accidentally with their baggage. I can't even see Tompkins from here. Hell, I can't see anything… I think to myself what a long way this is from home, but I'm not worried. That gives me courage. Maybe that means someday I'll have enough guts to get away from New York and try Santa Fe out for myself. Maybe even go with Roger…

I turn and continue on my way, traveling down East Broadway, watching some street kids throwing punches as friends attempt to hold them back. I smile sadly, recalling the times when my best friend Brian and I, back when I was in grade school, would go through those kinds of fights. Brian Neeham – hell, I remember that kid as if he were standing before me now. Our fights were always over one of three things: a girl that we both thought was cute, something someone said we said to someone else that wasn't true at all, or over why I was right and he was wrong. I remember the time spent with Brian as an eye-opener. We were both shy and withdrawn most of the time, and when he moved away when I was thirteen, I cried for the first time…. But this memory is wiped from my mind as I realize that if he hadn't have left, I would have never met Roger or Maureen or April or Joanne… Nothing would've been the same. And yet, I miss him. After how many fuckin' years of not remembering, I choose now to recall his smiling face, his silver braces, and his long, unruly hair? It seems unnatural. I mean, I haven't seen the guy since I was thirteen! Jesus, that seems like ages ago…

Just as I said to April, you await these milestones in your life like turning sixteen so you can drive and once you pass them up, you can't have them back – ever. I remember thinking twenty-one was a huge deal back in high school. I mean, that's the time you go out and party 'til you're falling over, puking and reeking of booze and whores, right? Wrong. When I turned twenty-one, I got a card from my mom saying, "Happy Birthday to my favorite son: One day closer to thirty!" It was supposed to be a joke card, but it just depressed the hell out of me. I mean, 'one day closer to thirty' is like saying, "One day closer to death, son! See ya when you get there!"

Maybe I'm thinking too much again…. Probably. My biggest problems in life would be solved if I just dove right into situations, headfirst, without looking before I leap. And where did I ever pick up that notion, anyhow? I mean, my dad always tried to push me into things and my mother was the very definition of a pacifist. And my sister…well, she was too busy with makeup, cooking, and boyfriends to give a damn about the rest of the family. I guess that's why she fit in so nicely; because she was just like the rest of them… And screw it, because I'm not going to be forced to love and honor my family, damn it! I'll hate them if I please….

But, no…I don't hate them. I could never hate them, which makes me hate myself for who I've become. Jesus, I don't even have my own thoughts anymore.

I notice that I've already merged onto Park Row and have passed City Hall Park and the New York Downtown Hospital. As I make my way onto Canyon of Heroes, the words of the streets mush in my brain, leaving only one word out: heroes.

When I was in high school, we all had to write these ridiculous papers on who our hero was and why. I couldn't think of one person to write about. It was the first assignment I flunked. I've never had a hero. I mean, why do we even need one to begin with? They're usually these intangible people who we don't even know: movie stars, sports players, foreign ambassadors, presidents, historical figures… None of that bullshit is real, so why bother with it? If I were to write that paper now, I still wouldn't have a damn hero… Or would I? The thought of Collins as my hero turns through my head now, but I dismiss it, not wanting to even put his name in my thoughts until I can control them.

I'm here… I see the gravesite coming up before me as I turn onto Trinity Place, watching where it crosses with Pine Street. I almost turn away, as I've done everyday now, but, as always, I strain to keep going. I know once I get there the anxiety will melt into sobs and cries and weariness… As I enter through the large steel gates, I follow the curved path that takes me to the back of the site, where Collins' small grave. For such an important part of my life, he occupies such a small plot of earth in his death.

I bend, letting the four roses slip from my fingertips onto the cool ground beside his tombstone.

"One red rose: to symbolize the simple words of "I love you". Red is normally for passion and romantic love, but today, it is for love of my dearest friend.

"One white rose: to symbolize innocence, purity, and youthfulness. Most of all, it is labeled as the "keep a secret" rose. You've kept my deepest darkest secrets locked inside of you for all your life, and will continue, I'm sure to do so in death… And I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for it. Without you, everyone would know me so quickly and judge with contempt.

"One yellow rose: to symbolize friendship and my deepest caring for you, Collins. Also, and more importantly, it stands for remembrance. Your memory will always be in my heart, and I cherish every moment spent with you.

One pink rose: symbolizing the three things it stands for – gentleness, because you were the sweetest person I knew; 'please believe me' to simply say that you know how I felt and I've always told you my feelings straightforwardly, without pause or anxiety, which always helped me through whatever problem I was in; and most significantly 'perfect happiness' because I know that's what you're in right now: in death one is more content than in life, and I hope you rest in peace…"


	5. I Don't Expect You To Be Mine

CHAPTER V: **I Don't Expect You To Be Mine**

As I return home from Collins' grave, I see the same two suitcases laid out in front of Roger's doorway. They are basically empty, with a few pieces of clothing thrown inside. Either he's leaving or he's planning to leave.

"Roger?" I call out quietly, stepping over his suitcases to enter his room. I smile, seeing him lying on his bed, languidly swinging his legs off the edge. "Hey you."

"Hey Mark." He looks up with a smile, putting all his weight on his elbows as he sits up halfway. "Glad you're back."

"What's with the suitcases?"

He shrugs, yawning as he slips off the bed. "You hungry?"

I nod, getting a bad feeling about all this. "I guess." With Roger, words aren't so much as important as actions. If he's acting funny, something's up. If he says nothing's wrong, it's usually an indicator of a lie. There's _always_ something wrong with Roger, no matter how he tries to act. 

"Do we have anything to eat around here?"

I smile slightly. "For once, we actually do – leftovers from dinner with Toby and Miss Jacqueline last night." As we head out the room towards the fridge, we're both silent. Damn it, I know something's going on now. We haven't been this quiet since he moved back in. 

I look up, not knowing what to say. Roger must have something to tell me… But why isn't he just coming right out and saying it? It's not like there's anyone else around. What with Toby looking into film schools, the place is deserted save the two of us. Actually, I'm sure of what Roger's going to say. He'll start by saying, "Mark…we need to talk." And I'll say, "Yes?" And he'll say, "I'm moving out." And I'll cry. And he'll cry. And then he'll leave and return again in a few months and we'll argue, forcing him to leave again, only to return in another couple of months and –

"Hey Mark," Roger's voice breaks through my thoughts, "You wanna split leftover Vegan Nachos with me?"

I smile and nod, thinking a change from my normal dish of veggie-burgers and fries might do me well. "Sure. Sounds good."

Quietly, I make myself a tea, glancing over my shoulder as he grabs a coke. I simply watch him as I sit, taking a sip of my tea, gauging his every movement. Why did I even let him move back in with me in the first place? I knew this was coming. He kept telling me he was moving out, but I chose not to believe. How could I believe? I mean, I know he likes to get away from life, but he always comes back to the loft and to me… Could it be that I'm losing him for good now? Jesus, I don't want to lose him again – it's like losing a piece of myself in the process, and another relapse is not what I'm in the market for.

"Mark…?"

"Huh?" I shake my head, realizing I've been zoning again.

He laughs lightly, taking a seat across from me, setting a greasy bowl of nachos before us. "You were sort of staring off into space, but your eyes were glued on me… Kind of freaky…"

"Sorry," I reply with a forced smile. "So, can I ask again about the suitcases?"

He sighs, collecting himself a bit before he nods, taking a bite of a tortilla filled with cheese and…other stuff… After swallowing, he shrugs, his eyes downcast. "I'm leaving for Santa Fe."

I grimace at the nachos, wondering how Toby ever convinced me to try these things. I mean, what the hell does Vegan mean, anyway? Collecting my thoughts a bit, I look up. "When?"

"Tomorrow."  
"What?!"  
"I know," he adds, defensively, "that it's so soon…but I told you I was leaving. I gave you every opportunity to say you wanted to come along, too. You know I did."

"What are you saying?" I ask, becoming defensive myself. "That I can't come along now, even if I wanted to?"  
"That's not at all what I'm saying, Mark. Don't do this…"

"Do what?"

"Pick a fight with me over something so small and –"

"If you say insignificant, I'll punch you."

"Okay, sorry…" He sighed, gesturing to the plate. "Aren't you going to eat?"  
"Suddenly, I'm not hungry."

"What, because of me? Jesus…"

"What's with the tone, Roger?" I leer over the table at him, letting my renewed temper flair.

"Nothing!" he cries, pushing the plate away. "Now, I'm not hungry."

"What, because of me?" I mimic sarcastically, crossing my legs and folding my arms. "Jesus."

"Shut up… Do you want me to leave during another one of our fights, Mark? Because you're making it pretty damn clear that you do."

"You know I don't," I whisper, lowering my eyes.

"Then, just tell me you want to come along and stop acting like a baby."

"Me?!" I stand up, making a few throaty noises that make it clear that…well that I'm anything but a baby. "You're the one."

"You're doing it still. Just sit down and talk to me."

"What for? What has talking ever done for us?"

He sighs, folding his arms, eyes still fixated on the tabletop. "We used to be able to talk, Mark. I mean, back when I really felt like I lived here, we could talk. We'd spend hours talking…."

"Yeah," I breathe, slipping back into my chair. A silent moment passes before my temper flairs again. "But, that was then and this is now. We can't ever go back to those days. Besides, times have changed… _We've_ changed." I fold my arms again. "So _you_ say, anyway."

He frowns, clenching his jaw to contain anger. "I said it because I meant it, damn it."  
In despair, I look over at him and plea, "Why don't you stay, Roger? We can work this out… We always fight, but we make up. That's just how we are, isn't it? I mean, we've always been angry with each other, but there's never a time when we meant anything we said."

"Until now…"

My cheeks rise with fire as I push the table over, standing to my feet. "Goddamn it, Roger!" I cry, flushed with rage as the table falls, crashing on the hard floor. All the pain, all the suffering and fury I've been feeling since Collins died – all the anguish and depression I've tried to hide – comes out in full force now, and for once in my life, I'm actually scared I might hurt Roger if I don't calm down, but that thought is strangled by the anxiety within. "I'm so tired of this!"

"Mark!" he stands up, jumping out of the way of the metal. "Jesus Christ! What the hell…!"

Running my hands through my hair, I pull at it frantically, trying to make sense of everything, but I can't. I feel the need to hit someone rising inside my chest, paining me until my vision is blurred. "You can't leave me, Goddamn it! You just can't!"

"Why don't you –"

"And you know I can't go with you, so don't even fuckin' ask, Roger!" My head spins dizzily again and I race towards the fridge, pushing things aside and finding what it is I want.

"Mark!" I hear Roger's voice before his hand takes away the bottle of vodka in my hand. He's stunned into silence as I grab it back, pushing him out of the way. "What… I don't…. Jesus…"  
I look down at the bottle after taking a drink and realize what I'm doing. Stumbling, my whole body begins to shiver and I instantly take another – long: Christ, it feels good – drink, downing half the bottle with it. When I come up for air, the room is spinning a bit and I don't feel well, but that only provokes another drink and before I know it, I've downed the entire bottle in moments. In realization, my body is wracked with tremors and I drop the bottle, sinking onto the floor, feeling broken glass nudge into my skin, slicing me open like a razor. All through this, Roger is trying to take the bottle away, but after it slips and breaks against the floor, he tries grabbing my arms, pulling me away from the remnants of liquor swirling on the floor, mumbling "Jesus" the entire time. All I can think of is how bad I feel, but how good it felt to drink it…. It felt _so_ damn good… I'm aware that I've been drinking like this for the past week, but haven't even comprehended until now.

"Mark? Mark!" Roger's voice is so close to me now, beside my ear almost.

I'm standing up now and I fight to control balance, groping for the handle to the fridge. "What?" I ask harshly. He tries to take my arm and I flinch, shaking it off. "Don't touch me! Look, I just need another –"

"The hell you do, Mark!" He pushes me away from it easily. "What the fuck's the matter with you?"  
My eyes narrow. "_What_?" I look him straight in the eyes. "Tell me, are you upset because I'm drinking," I pause, my face in his, "or because you didn't even notice before now?"

His eyes widen and his jaw drops, but before long, anger replaces shock. "Just fuckin' tell me why, Mark… I mean, Jesus, you're going to ruin your life."

"Ruin my life? You're the one to talk," I retort.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

I run off to his room and start scrounging through the drawers, aimlessly searching for my proof of just how screwed up he is. He tries to stop me, but I am too strong. "This!" I cry, triumphantly holding up a needle. "This is what I fucking meant, Roger. Care to explain?" I toss it on his bed, staring smugly at him."

"How did you…?"  
"Toby found it, actually. He told me. I've known for a few days now, but I kept hoping and praying it wasn't true. Tell me it's not true, Roger." He lowers his eyes, sighing helplessly. "Tell me…"

"I-I can't…."

"Roger, you –"

"You don't know what it's fuckin' like, Mark!" he cries, tears rising in his eyes. "You can't ever know the pain I feel to know that I'm going to die soon and that there's nothing I can do." His voice rises, "You'll never know!" He pushes me back against the wall and I hit it with a loud thud. "I mean, Goddamn it, Mark, if you don't have to go through all this fuckin' shit, then why the hell are you drinking?" He pauses, shaking his head as I look up at him through blurred vision. "You're the one of us who'll survive, damn it… And you're wasting that?"

"Roger…I didn't realize –"

"You never do, Mark." He sighs, sitting on the edge of his bed, letting his head drop into open palms. "You never do."

It takes me a full minute to shake the stars out of my head before I can stand without falling over. I walk over to him and take a seat on the bed, lowering my gaze, blinking away the sleep and haze that rises. "I can't stop," I whisper softly.

He looks up, startled. "Why did you start? I mean…I thought you would never do that, because your dad was –"

"Look, I know what my dad was, okay? I just…I can't help it, Roger. It makes me feel good."

He frowns, placing his hand on my shoulder. "Please don't do it anymore." The sound of his voice, so soft and sweet beside me makes me clench my jaw to hold back tears. "Don't do that, either, Mark," he continued, shaking his head.

"Do…do what?"

"You always try not to cry."

I shrug, lowering my gaze. "I always cry, Roger. I'm tired of fucking crying."

He nods, knowingly. "I've always berated you for it, haven't I?"

I look up, surprised by that statement. Jesus, has he been studying my movies or something? "N-no, you haven't –"

"Mark, stop lying, please; for once, I want the full truth from you." I gulp as he continues, "What will you do when I go away again?"

I shrug, shaking my head, forcing a smile. "Try to kill myself?" His eyes go wide. "I was kidding, Roger… You know, joking?"

"Well, don't, okay?" He stands up. "I can't stand this."

"What?"

"This!" he cries angrily. "This…joking and beating around the bush and lying and just… Christ, I hate living here!" He spins around, running his fingers through his hair, trying to brush it away from his eyes with no such luck.

My heart seems to fall out of my chest and I swallow, my bottom lip shivering. "Why don't you leave tonight, then?" I stand to my feet, surprisingly meek and calm about this. "I'll help you pack."

He turns slowly, eyeing me strangely. "Do you want me to leave?"

"Well, you're not happy here, so, why not?"

"But, do you want me to go?" I don't answer, walking away, but before I make it two steps, he grabs my shoulders, forcing my eyes to meet with his. "Goddamn it, Mark! What do you want? For once in your life just tell me what you want!" I don't reply, my eyes narrowing in confusion. Make a decision? Mark Cohen? Ha… He shakes me out of my thoughts. "No, no…Stop thinking, Mark. Jesus, either do something in the moment or tell me what you want to do. Stop living your life on the sidelines or you'll lose all your friends and you'll be alone forever…" The words are echoing through my mind. Carpe diem, I think to myself now, recalling my old philosophy that Angel taught and that Collins instilled and me. I tremble, knowing exactly what I want to do, but also knowing I can't bring myself to do it. "…If you don't tell me what the hell you want from me Mark, we're through – friendship, brotherhood: whatever. It's all over with and done."

"You can't do this to me, Roger. You can't put me on the spot and expect me to –"

"The hell I can't!" He pulls away, shaking his head. "What are you so afraid of Mark?" I stutter a few indiscernible words but he continues. "I've known you for so fuckin' long, and I've always tried to figure that out, but I never have. Y'know why?"

"Why?" I ask, wanting desperately to know myself.

"Because you don't even know." My eyes cloud with tears that I try to blink away. "No! Damn it, Mark, before you lose this feeling, just do something!" I look up at him, helplessly drowning in my pool of need.

"I c-can't –"

His eyes are filled with a concerned glare. "If you don't, I'm gone. So, do it. I know what you're thinking, okay?" Shit… I'm shivering again. "No, no, stay with me Mark!" The alcohol is taking effect now and the tears flow. "I know what you want to do, so just get it out of the way and we can start again… Damn it, Mark, just –"

And I do it: the one thing I feel I've longed to do for years and years now; the one thing that's been bottled up inside me for God knows how long; the thing I've never been able to admit to even myself; and the thing that's been eating away at me since Mimi died…maybe even before that. But, somehow I muster up the courage to kiss him. It's so awkward, I realize faintly, wrapping my arms around him. Though my eyes are closed, I can sense his tensing muscles, and immediately I understand that he didn't want this like I did. I pull away, lowering my head and turning away, cursing under my breath gently.

"Mark…?"

"Huh?" I shiver, the tears flowing as I drop down into a heap on the floor. "I'm so fucked up, Roger… I took a drink for the first time since high school the day Collins died. I took another the day of his funeral. I just couldn't stop it." I look up at him and he's not chiding me or saying I'm stupid. He's just looking back with that same concern, as if I hadn't been so brainless as to jeopardize what little string of friendship we're hanging onto by kissing him. "It made me feel good, made me feel wanted somehow…or loved…or…I don't even know what I'm trying to say…" I bow my head, shaking it.

I flinch as he kneels beside me, nodding me on, "Keep going, Mark. I'm listening…"

"I've been trying to hide it from you – the drinking. Hell, I've been trying to hide it from myself and Toby and my conscience and God… Shit…" I break down again, sobbing into my palms. Feeling slight pressure on my shoulder, I jerk my head up to see Roger's arms wide open, welcoming me and I shake my head. "Why are you still here…?"

"Why are you still afraid?"

I swallow, still shaking my head, desperately searching for a way out. "I-I'm not afraid…"

"Then why the hell are you shivering like that? Jesus, Mark, sometimes you're so naïve."

I sniffle, mustering up enough courage to scoot forward into his arms, suddenly clutching him with a despondency that appalls me. How did I ever let myself get so damn close to someone? "Why the hell do I love you?" I find myself sobbing quietly. "Why…out of all the other people in this fucking screwed up world…why you? And why me?" He tries to hush me, but I continue. "No… Don't stop me, Roger. You're the one who said I needed to do something, right? I know you didn't mean what I did, but I've wanted to do that for so long… I thought it would go away. I thought if I kept thinking about how beautiful you and Mimi were or you and April even, that I wouldn't yearn and desire, but life doesn't happen that way. Life has always hated me…"

"Stop it, Mark."

"I can't stop drinking just like I can't stop loving you." I look up at him, sitting in his arms and clench my jaw to try and get the words out right. "Don't leave. You asked what I'd do if you left, and I didn't answer, because I seriously don't know, but what I do know is that it won't be a good thing. Every other time you left, I sobbed and despaired and couldn't eat or sleep or think of anything else but how much I missed you teasing me and you fighting with me and always being right. There were moments when I was at the end of my rope and thought suicide was the greatest idea and the only way out –"

"Mark, don't…"

"—but I don't feel that way anymore, Roger," my voice trembles as I grip his sleeve. "I still have this hope and it drains the very life out of me, and you know what that hope is. I showed it to you tonight in…in that kiss."

"Mark, please!"

"What?" my eyes shimmer with tears as he helps me to my feet. As he sees I can stand on my own, he backs away a bit.

"Stop talking…. I know I said I wanted you to just do whatever you wanted or felt, but… Jesus, I wasn't expecting that, okay? I'm not… I mean…" He sighs helplessly, shaking his head. "I can't return that love. That hope you said you showed me… I can't give it to you, no matter what you do or say. You have to know I love you too much for that."

I nod, just standing there, looking at him. Maybe I misread my feelings of romantic love for friendly love. Is that why it felt so wrong to kiss him? So awkward and tight? All our friends had brought it up at one time or another. You and Roger should go out! Normally, this brought a load of laughs to both of us and an uncomfortable moment of silence to follow where we'd both tense. I automatically assumed this meant he felt the same. I guess I was wrong. But, as I look at him now, I think maybe there's something more to this love than I thought previously. We normally associate love with lust and desire, but what if that doesn't exist? Sometimes I think my love for Roger is just that of friends who are so close you can't tell the difference, and, with a laugh, I suddenly realize that's the truth of the matter. I don't hunger for him like I do Maureen, but I don't want to hug him like I hug my sister. I just… "I want our friendship back," I say monotonously. And yet, that doesn't seem like enough anymore…

He smiles, nodding, seeming to have read all my thoughts. Or did I speak them aloud just now? "Me too."

"Look Roger… I don't want to apologize for what I just did."

He nods. "I don't want you to, either."

I laugh lightly, wiping away the remainder of tears. "Pretty dumb, huh?"  
His smile is soft as he nudges me with his elbow. "It was hot."

"Shut up." My face flushes dark crimson and again we're both silent. I take a seat on the bed and suddenly remember the needle. "Roger…?"

"Huh?" I reach behind me, picking it up and twirling it between my fingers, offering that as my only reply. "Oh…" he lowers his eyes, taking a seat beside me and taking the needle from me, looks it over. "It looks so harmless, doesn't it?"

"But it's not. That thing'll kill you."

He nods, shrugging. "I-I know. Sometimes, I think it's better if I end it in my own way, though."

"I know what you mean, but I don't condone it."

"I don't either."

"Then give it up for good, Roger." I place my hand on his shoulder, my eyes shimmering. "I worry about you."

He sighs quietly, looking over at me. "I worry about you, too, y'know."

"What about me?"

"Just…you in general, Mark. You're always so vulnerable and weak."

"Hey…thanks."

"I didn't mean it like that; I just meant that you let things get to you too easily. You invite hurt into your life sometimes, and whenever I'm not right beside you, I feel like you'll do something…"

"Stupid?" I offer with a frown.

"Well, frankly, yeah, Mark. You're not known for making the wisest decisions in the world: you dated Maureen – that's all the proof I need." He smirked softly.

"Don't joke, Roger… If you worried about me at all, you wouldn't leave all the time."

He stands to his feet with a sigh. "You just don't get it, do you Mark?"

"What's there to get?" I retort, standing to join him. "That you're dying and you want to split town because of that? Yeah, I get it, all right…"

"Fuck you, Mark. You know that's not how it is."

"Well then explain it."

"You don't know what it's like to be _this_ sick, okay?" His eyes implore me to understand, and I listen wholeheartedly. "You don't know what it's like to know that you're going to die in five years or five minutes. You don't know what it's like to wake up every morning – alone – realizing that it's never going to get any better than this. You have no fuckin' idea how much I wish I hadn't done what I did to get AIDS, and you don't know how much I yearn for the past, more so than even you… You don't know what I'd give to just be you for one day, Mark – to have your sense of creative abandonment, to get lost in the right brain for hours a day, and to give everything for my art like you do. Do you even fuckin' understand how much of a role model you'd be to anyone who gives a damn about life? I mean, Jesus Mark; do you understand me yet, or are you still clueless?"

I swallow, my eyes narrowed in confusion. What the hell…? A role model? He wants to be like me? Nothing's sinking in, because I don't want to hear that. He wants to be me? The thought is ridiculous! "Roger, you're just –" Interrupting my reply is the phone. Startled, both our heads jerk towards the answering machine that sits on the floor now, amazingly not broken from when I threw the table down.

The old message has returned: "Speak!"

"Mark are you there?" Oh God…perfect timing, mom… "Honey, pick up the phone and stop screening your calls, 'cause I don't want to drone on and on and on until you'll never call back like you used to when you were there," without as much as a pause, she managed to talk to someone off the phone too, "I don't think he's there, Andrew," I know she's speaking to my father now, "And…yes, I'm telling him now to –" she gasps, "—Mark! I sent you a train ticket back to home, so come and visit if you're feeling alone, 'cause we all saw the movie and we're worried. Yes, we're worried, because – Yes, I'm telling him now, Andrew; please don't remind me while I'm talking to – Mark! Are you there? Just call. Your mother."

The beep sounds, ending the call all too late. I've lost my train of thought from earlier and so we stand opposite each other for a few very intense moments before he moves, shoving past me towards his suitcases.

"I'm still leaving tomorrow."

I clench my jaw, frowning. "Still afraid." It's not a question, and yet I expect a response, but I get none. He almost turns back towards me but decides against it at the last minute, merely pausing in his tracks before grabbing clothes out of the drawers, hurling them into the suitcase. I watch absently, sighing as I kneel beside him out of habit almost, removing all the clothing before picking up a shirt and folding it properly. "You never were one for suitable packing."

He looks up, his eyes studying me. Those eyes… My stomach does a few flip-flops as I stare into them and I realize that my heart is pounding. Again, the line between friendship and romance seems blurry now as I gaze into those pools of hopelessness. In them, I see his pain, his dreams – his very soul… But before I can get too caught up in these yearnings – if I can ever dare to call them that – his eyes lower and he hands me more clothes to fold. "Thanks," he mumbles under his breath.

I sink down, crossing my legs Indian style, folding slowly as my eyes dart from the suitcase to Roger and back again. Absentmindedly, I notice the scars on the insides of his arms… Jesus, how did I miss them before? It's bruised and a mixture of purples, blues, and reds. It's amazing to me how I can see every vein in those powerful arms and yet the translucence of it all makes me dizzy with worry. I know I'm staring at him now, but something draws me to his face. I notice, at this very moment, that the fire in him has all but died out, and I observe the pale façade of death has replaced it. The terror of the situation at hand becomes all too clear now as I recall that Collins looked quite the same a few months before he took a turn for the worst and was admitted to the hospital for the first time…

Feeling tears prick at the back of my eyes, I bow my head, attempting to concentrate on the fabrics in my trembling hands through my now distorted vision…without much success. As much as I try to hold it back, I have to sniffle to try and get my head cleared, but that only draws attention to my quivering form, and out of the corner of my eyes, I see that Roger is staring at me.

"Mark…?"

"Huh?" I sniff again, lowering my gaze further as I place a shirt in the suitcase, picking up another. "What?" I try to laugh it off. "I must be getting a cold or something…"

His eyes narrow and he shakes his head. "You do know it's okay to cry, right?" I look up and despite all I've believed lately, I know he's right, so I nod. "Then why don't you? You started to earlier, before you…we…" he trails off. "Just tell me what you're feeling right now, Mark."

I shrug, lowering my gaze again and turning back to the clothes. "I did that earlier too, and it got us nowhere."

"C'mon, Mark," he pleads softly, "Just tell me –"

"No, y'know what, Roger? I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to fuckin' talk anymore. You're leaving, and nothing I say is going to change that, right?" He sighs helplessly. "You don't even have to answer. You're leaving and that's that. I'll just have to deal with it, and you'll have to deal with my not talking about what I feel. How's that?" There's an edgy undertone to my voice that I barely notice, but I know it comes out in full volume as I pick up his underwear by accident, folding it before noticing what it is I'm folding and I try to toss it in a non-fanatical fashion into the suitcase.

"Fine, Mark. Be that way," he stumbles to his feet, walking out of the room.

As I hear him heading for the door, I stand up as well, crying out, "Y'know this is _your_ fuckin' suitcase, damn it!"

"Then don't pack it." I hear the door open.

"I won't!"

"Fine, I'll do it later."

The door slams shut as I sink down into Roger's bed, laying on my back and staring up at the ceiling. "Goddamn it!" I scream, covering my eyes with my fists, feeling the effects of vodka settling in my stomach finally. The familiar haze overwhelms my senses and I feel like I'm floating away.

~~ His fingers trace my jaw as I look up at him from my position; still sprawled out on his bed as he straddles me. His lips hover over mine, brushing against the swollen flesh until I'm dizzy with lust. Breath tickling my skin sends a series of chills to play upon my spine, spreading evenly to each and every part of my body until I'm wracked with gentle shivers. I stand, unmovable, as his free hand slides up my arm, over my neck and shoulder, finally stopping to caress my cheek and then to intertwine in my hair, tugging ever so lightly. My breath becomes erratic as he removes my shirt, letting it tousle my already disheveled tresses before he tosses it aside, still keeping those beautiful lips of his just out of my reach, even as I waver forwards, yearning for completion of this play we're acting out – this dance of seduction that he's spinning in front of my eyes, even as I realize they are closed tightly, my features altering into a look of feared anticipation as my brow furrows.

"Roger…Please…" I whisper urgently, leaning my head into his hand that now cups my reddened cheek.

He leans in, shifting the weight of his body so that it's up against the length of mine. "Yes, Mark?" he breaths quietly into my ear.

My lips part slowly as a soft moan escapes my lips. I can feel every muscle in that strong body of his as he rocks us back and forth, his hands roaming over my sweaty body. "Jesus, Roger…" I half-groan, trying to push him away even though it feels so damn right. It just can't happen like this. "Stop," I say defiantly.

He silences any further pleas with a deep kiss, pushing his way into my mouth, despite my protests. "Don't tell me you don't want this, Mark," he coos as his lips trace a path downwards to my neck.

"I-I can't…." I sigh, giving up the fight with ease, lifting my hands to run through his hair as he travels lower still. God, I do want this. He's right…. ~~

Nearly shoving the covers off my body, I jump up in a sweat, falling off the ledge of the bed in one swift, clumsy motion, panting heavily as I realize I'm laying on top of someone. Eyes stare back at me through the darkness and I shiver, my own eyes widening in fear. "R-Roger?!" I cry as my eyes adjust to his form beneath mine on the floor.

He groans and gives a short laugh. "Yeah, Mark…It's me." I barely hear him. I can feel those muscles…just like in my dream, and I find myself more than a little aroused by it. Looking down at him, I feel a lump driving it's way into my throat. "Mark?" his voice is so soft, almost in my ear.

"Yeah?" I manage to breath, shivering slightly.

"Can you get off me now?" He smiles up at me.

I nearly jump out of my skin, fumbling to gain leverage on two feet, grasping for the bed to steady myself. Running a hand around to the back of my neck, I rub it roughly, turning away from Roger. Goddamn it, Cohen! What the fuck is the matter with you? You're having wet dreams about your best friend now? Jesus…

"Are you okay?" he asks, coming to my side.

I place a hand over my heart, attempting to calm its rapid pace. "N-Not really… Just had a nightmare."

"Oh…I wondered why you were tossing and turning like that."

"Why were you sleeping on the floor?" I ask softly.

"Oh… You were knocked out on the bed, so I didn't think waking you would bode well for a request for forgiveness." He turns me to face him. "I wanted to apologize for earlier. I mean, I just got mad, okay? I don't want to leave here on a bad note."

I nod, struggling to breathe. "Yeah…don't worry about it."

"So, we're cool?"  
"Yeah." I break out of his tender grasp and walk a few paces in the opposite direction, trying to clear my head, but upon turning I note the two cleanly packed suitcases. "You packed, huh?"  
He nods, moving to stand beside me. "Yeah. And…I… I threw out the remaining bottles in the fridge –"

"What?!"

"—and threw out my needle and remaining stash, as well."

Before I'm about to blow up, the words sink in and I smile. "Oh…"

"Yeah." He nudges me playfully. "Oh," he mimics sarcastically.

My smile is short-lived. With the nudge comes a heart full of pain. It's like torture – standing beside him, knowing what I know; that the kiss was supposed to be something more, that the dream wasn't the first, and that I may just love him that way.

"You okay, Mark?" he asks, very concerned.

"I…uh…" I stutter a bit before attempting to laugh it off, "Yeah, of course I'm okay. The dream just kind of shook me up; that's all."

"What was it about?"

My eyes widen a bit as I look up at him. "Oh…nothing."

He smiles wryly. "Was it really a nightmare? Or…a _good_ dream?"

I shiver a bit, turning away. "Just a nightmare."

"C'mon, don't give me that! What was it about?" He smirks, circling me until he stands in front. "It was about Maureen, huh?" I try to break away. "Someone else? Hmm…that girl who waitresses at the Life? No?" He feigns a pout. "So who?"

"No one. Just a nightmare."

"Oh, so it's _private_, hm?" He chuckles, letting me go. "Fine, be secretive."

"It was about you, if you must know," I blurt out, gaining an ounce of courage before feeling myself quiver again. Don't tell him…

"Me?" he asks, confusion in his tone. There's a bit of silence that hangs in the air before he swallows – I can hear it even from where I stand. "About me, huh?" His joking tone comes out cold: "A…uhh…nightmare, right?"

I shake my head. "No…not exactly…"

"Oh…"

I turn back to face him. "Look, Roger…I don't think you should ask, okay? It would further confuse things, and you said you wanted to leave on a good note, right?" He nods. "Well, then, let's just drop it and get some sleep…" Suddenly, my stomach does a flip or two and I feel the sickness rising. Moaning, I race for the bathroom.

"…And then Maureen and I did that little skit, where we played lovers? That was classic, Mark! A work of art."

I laugh with a cock-eyed smile, lowering my eyes. "Naw…I think it was all pure smut, really. I mean, c'mon: you and Maureen dancing around like two drunkards with Collins providing the love song soundtrack in the background? Methinks I was on crack at the time."

Roger smiles. "Trust me, when all was said and done, it was a beautiful film. I loved making it too." He nudges me. "I especially enjoyed working with Mark Cohen _before_ he was famous and renowned."

"Famous and renowned, my ass," I reply, blushing. "I'm barely infamous."

"Can't you ever take a compliment straight off?"

"No." I smile slightly.

Roger and I have been up for hours now just talking. We both decided that sleep was out of the question on his last night in NYC. I mean, we both know he'll never be back, and I'm beginning to understand that's a good thing. He needs to get out of here. New York is no place for people like him. Come to think of it, New York is no place for me either. At any rate, since sleep was out of the question, talking seemed appropriate. So, we've chatted about everything from the weather to how I felt when Angel died to how he felt when he first left for Santa Fe to both our thoughts on leaving the city that has sort of become our home.

He yawns, interrupting my thoughts. "What time is it?"

I lean over, fumbling for the digital clock on the side of his bed. I grimace; fishing through whatever Roger hasn't cleaned up on the floor to find it. "It's 6:01AM," I reply with a light yawn myself. As if I've had a good night's sleep since Collins' death, anyway, and now not sleeping at all? My stomach tells me to get a drink to wake myself up, but my head reminds me that Roger threw them all out. I'm thankful, I guess… Even though I'm craving that burning liquid more than anything right now.

"What time does your flight leave?" I ask, absently toying with the sleeve of my shirt.

"I'm not flying."

I look up, making a confused face. "You're taking the train all that way?"

"Nope."

I laugh, hitting his arm. "So, how are you getting there? You gonna walk?"

He smirks. "I gotta leave before 10:00… I'm driving."

"What?! How in the hell are you gonna do that…with no car and no driver's license?"

"Mark, you worry too much," he teases. "I got a license a year or so ago. As for the car… Well, I found an old VW Bug with red trim that –"

"April's car!" I almost cry out, my eyes wide as I shake my head in bewilderment. "Where did you find it?"

"I asked around… Actually, Benny's the one that told me where it was. Allison told him she saw some kid driving it a while back and when I went looking, I saw it and bought it on the spot."

"It still works?" I ask as my voice rises. "Shit, that thing's ancient, Roger. I'd be surprised if it still had wheels and an engine. Will that thing get you all the way to Santa Fe…in one piece?"

"Of course. It's in perfect shape still. You remember how April kept that thing – spotless and always running."

"I always wondered how she ever kept it so beautiful. I mean, she was living off a waitress's salary."

"Her brother was a mechanic, remember? He gave her free tune-ups and everything."

I nod. "Yeah, I remember that now. He was a nice guy… Whatever happened to him?"

"He got married," Roger says with a slight laugh. "Moved to Connecticut."

I lower my eyes at this, studying my hands as I clasp them together, fidgeting a bit. "You know something?"

"What?"

"We're nearing thirty years old, Roger."

He groans. "Don't remind me…"

"No…but doesn't that sound weird to you? Doesn't it seem like only yesterday you broke me out of school? Or just five minutes ago the whole gang was planning to move in together, but we couldn't afford it? Or a month ago Angel was playing his drum for us all, showing us how to live?" I sigh, dejected. "I'm almost thirty, and what do I have to show for it? A bunch of half-assed films and a fan base that'll be gone in a week if I don't do another movie."

"C'mon, Mark, it's not as bad as you're making it out to be."

"Isn't it? I'm five years away from turning thirty years old. Five years… That's 1,820 days. Doesn't seem like much when you put it like that, does it?"

Roger thinks for a minute or so before he speaks. "2,628,000."

"What?"

"2,628,000 minutes. Give or take a thousand." He smiles. "Seem like a little more time now?"

"How the hell did you figure that out in your head?" I ask amidst laughter.

"The same way you knew it was 1,820 days. I've thought about it, too, Mark – every agonizing moment lately. I know there's not much time left before time runs out."

I almost smile. "That's poetic, you know."

"Is it? Not when it's all you think about."

"No, not then." I shrug. "Maybe it's better not to think about it…not to think at all."

He smiles genuinely. "I can't believe you just said that."

"Me either… But, it's true isn't it? The more we think the more life seems complicated and the more it gets to us. If we'd just stop thinking about all that's wrong, maybe we'd notice all that's right."

"Now _that_'s poetic."

I nod. "I should've been a poet."

"Me too," he agrees with a smirk. "Maybe we should switch jobs for a while… You write songs and I'll try to film something."

"No way; I've seen the way you hold a camera!"

"Yeah, I've seen the way _you_ hold a camera, too," he snickers.

"What's wrong with the way I hold my camera?"

"It's a sick masturbation thing you got goin' on when a camera gets in your hand. It's like you're in love with the thing."

I roll my eyes, but suddenly grin. "You mean, like the same way you hold your guitar?"

"That's different!"  
"How so?" I ask, leaning forward, plastering a look of interested sarcasm on my face.

"It's… Well, it just is. A guitar is like a woman –"

"Here we go again," I groan with a laugh. "You should write a book: 'My Guitar – My Love'. It'll be a bestseller."

"But a camera, on the other hand," he continues over the top of my voice, "is more like a man." He purses his lips jokingly.

"Oh fuck off, Roger…"

"Aw, did I hit a sensitive area?" he chuckles, reaching to pinch my cheek. "So, it's true then?"

"What's true?" I pull my face away, suddenly catch his meaning and I glare. "_No_."

"No, what?" He feigns unknowing.

"No, I'm not…" My face flushes red. "Jesus, Roger, I hate you."

He laughs, nudging me as his head rolls back in hysterics. "I'm sorry, Mark," he manages between chuckles, "I couldn't resist… You're too easy to tease sometimes."

I force a smile, although I feel more like slapping him upside the head. He's just joking, I remind myself inwardly. He's not accusing you of being gay… Fuck, there's that word again. I hate that word. I'm _not_ gay. I've never _been_ gay, and I'll never _be_ gay. I'm not even bisexual, for Christ's sake! Why then do I feel so awkward when I know he was only joking? Maybe it's because of all those stupid dreams and the way I felt last night when I thought about kissing him. Maybe it's because I always notice the way his eyes gaze at me. Maybe it's because of the way his hair seems to always manage to get in his face at one time or another and I long to push it behind his ears. Maybe it's because I'm in love with him. But, damn it; that doesn't make me gay…

"Mark?"  
I shake my head, realizing I've been zoning again. "Huh…?"

"I said I was sorry… I didn't mean anything by it." His voice is so sincere.

I smile, nodding. "Yeah, I know. Sorry, I zoned for a minute."

His eyes look everywhere but my face. "Can I ask you something, in all seriousness?"

Butterflies fill my stomach as I slowly nod. "Uh huh." Don't ask it, don't ask it, don't –

"Are you gay?"

I swallow, closing my eyes briefly. "No, I'm not."

He looks up, all too suddenly. "Bisexual?"

"No."

He looks a bit confused. "So, you don't like guys?"

I laugh, lowering my eyes from his. "Only one guy…"

"Oh," he replies quietly.

"Don't make it more awkward than it has to be, Roger."

"What? I didn't mean to –"

"I just don't wanna talk about it now, okay?"

I feel his eyes on me, so I look up at him. His face is completely serious. "When else will we talk about it?"

Goddamn it, he's right… "Fine… What do you want to know?"

He clears his throat and shifts positions a bit in the manner of how he's sitting. "I don't really know."

I smile, elbowing him gently. "Then how are we supposed to talk about it?"

"I don't really know that, either," he replies, lowering his gaze.

"Okay. I'll just start voicing my thoughts; stop me when you want…" I pause, thinking of how I want to start this. He's leaving in a few hours anyway, so I may as well just say what's on my mind. Taking a deep breath, I spill it all. "I think I'm in love with you. That kiss, even though I said it was stupid, meant more to me than anything and it took more courage than anything I've ever tried to do to push forward and try it, and though it was a spur-of-the-moment thing, I've wanted to do it for so long now that it just seemed like the right time to do it, and I know you didn't want me to, but I did it, and I'm proud I did, although it really makes me nauseous to think about your reaction to all this, because it probably makes you feel uncomfortable, but I'm supposed to be talking about me not you, so never mind all that, because –"

"Take a breath, Mark," Roger reminds me with a small smile.

"Yeah…" I laugh lightly, realizing that was all one freakishly long sentence. Taking another long intake of air, I continue. "So, earlier, when I told you I had a nightmare – it wasn't really a nightmare – it actually would have been a wonderful, beautiful dream, but it just freaked me out, because it was about us, and you were seducing me, and as crazy as that sounds, it was such an intimate moment and in the dream I finally felt complete; like I didn't care about catching AIDS, since we were about to have sex; and I didn't care that you were leaving the next day, probably never to return; and I didn't care that I was so fucking scared that I was trembling when you kissed me – I didn't care about anything but the amazing sensation of love that radiated from you and from inside my heart as it swelled with adoring devotion for you…. God, I'm rambling, aren't I?"

He shrugs, nodding with a half-smile that almost reminds me of my own cock-eyed grins. "Yeah, you are. But, keep going… It's not complete dribble this time."

"I…uhh… I don't really know what else to say. That's about it."

"Can I ask something then?" I nod slowly. "Did it feel…right? I mean, was it as if we were in love?"

I smile wistfully. "Yeah. It was the only time in my life that everything fell into place and nothing was missing. It was almost too perfect, y'know?"

"Yeah," he replies quietly, turning his head distractedly.

"Sorry, I know this is all too much, especially before you leave and all. I just thought, if I don't say it now, I'll never do it."

"No, no… I know it's hard to say." He looks up with that same crazy smile that makes me suddenly want to melt in his arms. "I've said it before, and it wasn't easy either time."

"So, what do you have to say about it?"

"Huh?"

I quirk a brow as I lower my eyes to fidget with my sleeve again. "You haven't told me it'll never work out or that it makes you sick to think of or that you're not in the market for a relationship or that you're not even remotely attracted to me and never will be or that –"

He laughs, shaking his head. "I'm going to miss this."

"What?"

"The way you take things and stretch them out of proportion and the way you obsess over every little detail and the way you're almost always wrong about whatever it is you're thinking; the way you ramble on about nothing for hours and it somehow flows, as if you think you're making sense."

I chuckle as my face flushes crimson. "So, am I wrong about this?"

"That depends on what you think I think."

I smile, looking up at him. "I think that you think that I think you don't feel the same."

Roger's face contorts a bit as he tries to figure out the sentence structure. When he does, he smirks. "Oh? So, if I told you that you don't know that I know that you don't know that I've thought about us before, you'd probably think that I think that you think I'm nuts, but I'm not."

"Okay, I lost you after 'oh'… But I think you just admitted that you've thought about us before. Is that right?"

He nods, lowering his eyes. "I'd be lying if I said that thought never crossed my mind. I mean, you know how our friends joke about that. We're so close, people have mistaken us for brothers, and some of my band mates used to think we were married." He chuckles. "So, yeah, I've thought about it."

I frown suddenly, realizing where this is going. "But…?"

He sighs, bowing his head a bit. "But… It wouldn't work out." He shrugs, looking up. "I'm not gay, Mark."  
"I'm not either, Roger," I whisper, suddenly feeling hurt. "I told you, I've never liked a guy, and I didn't think I ever would, but when I think about you and me together, it just feels right. I can't deny that. I deny myself everything else, but I can't let this go."

His eyes seem almost sad as he speaks. "I'm sorry… I just don't feel the same way."

I nod, choking on the lump that rises in my throat, as I absently fix my glasses. I knew he wouldn't feel the same way, so why the hell did I tell him every fucking thought in my head? I even told him about that stupid dream! How stupid can you get, Cohen? Maybe you should take the first train back to Scarsdale and go back to my family. Jesus, that's the dumbest idea you've ever thought up, Mark!

"I'm sorry," he repeats gently. "I really am, Mark."

I shrug halfway, raising my eyes to look him over. How could a person like him ever love a person like me? It's ridiculous, really. "I know," I reply with a smile that's only intermediately forced. "Thanks for being truthful."

He nods. "You, too."

I reach back, picking up the clock which now reads 7:30AM. "Maybe we should head over to Maureen and Joanne's, huh?"

"For old time's sake?" he inquires with a smirk.

"No," I whisper, leaning towards him. "To piss them off with a friendly wake-up call."

He laughs, leaning his head back. I watch, almost mesmerized as his hair plays over his face, his eyes dancing with happiness. I find myself laughing too, despite the pain. What's that old song? 'Smile, though you're heart is breaking'? Yeah, that's it…


	6. I’m Sick Of Telling This Story To Those ...

CHAPTER VI: I'm Sick Of Telling This Story To Those Who Cannot Understand

((Lyrics from Matt Caplan's song "Sideways" and Dream Theater's "Lie"))

CHAPTER VI: **I'm Sick Of Telling This Story To Those Who Cannot Understand**

_"And at least I've got the sense to sense what's coming_

_And realize that good things never come to those who wait too long,_

_Because everything I've ever done,_

_I've done because I love you –_

_Silly you should ask…._

_I'm afraid that I'll spend the better part of next year_

Scared that I might need you" 

I can't believe this. I'm standing outside the loft, holding a suitcase in my trembling hands, gripping it like there's no tomorrow. And, I suppose there is no tomorrow, is there? I'm losing him – I'm losing the one person I dared to love. I've never really been in love before, and I'm not sure how it's supposed to feel, but I do know it's not supposed to feel like this – as if I'm being torn apart, ripped open; feeling the salt sting my freshly cut wounds until they bubble with remorse and an aching desire to make it all go away… You know, I _should have_ been a poet.

I still can't believe this. Holding his suitcase while he packs the car – that tiny little Bug that April used to give me rides uptown in, with it's red trim and funky odors radiating from within – I stand outside what has not really been his home for years now, my muscles refusing to let up on the vise-like hold I've attained to the handle, because I know once I let this go, he'll snatch it away and leave me blind, wavering as the little car speeds away to Santa Fe, where he'll most assuredly find a new life – dare I say – a better life; one where he doesn't have to deal with all this bullshit that I've given him and all the bullshit New York has given him. I wonder if he knows he'll still have to deal with his own bullshit, which is probably worse than the others combined. I wonder if he'll be okay…

"Thanks, Mark," he says with a smile, taking the suitcase from my quivering fingertips, walking back to his car to pack it in tightly with the others.

I wonder why I can't move. I'm frozen in place like some statuesque figurine that's been shelved all it's life. I feel empty and drained of everything I've ever felt. I feel like if I speak or move, I might ruin this for him. Maybe it's best to not say anything at all and stand here like the lump of dried clay you are, Cohen; that way, neither he nor you will have to deal with your babbling heart – he won't have to hear you ramble like a bum on the streets; like you usually are, and he won't have to deal with your broken heart. You know he doesn't want to deal with it, Mark; you _know_ he doesn't care.

Maybe… Maybe it's best this way – to leave him without a word; to let him go off to his future and leave the past behind without a care. Because, he doesn't care, I know. I'm not so naïve that I wouldn't notice that. Maybe I'm praying for him to speak first. Maybe I'm too chicken to actually step forward again and get down on my knees and beg him, like the little puppet I am, to stay, so that I might feel better about myself to know that someone does actually love me and need me and want me. Maybe I'm selfish in that respect. Maybe all I am is his pawn; placed before him to do whatever he wants, because if he asked anything at this moment, I doubt I could refuse, no matter what the task. Maybe I'm sick of it. Yes, maybe I'm tired of dancing for his pleasure and his pleasure only. Maybe I'm fucking fed up with being Mark Cohen: Roger Davis's plaything. Maybe I'm just angry with myself for feeling betrayed. But, don't I have the right to feel that way? Maybe I don't deserve to feel the way I do. Maybe I'm wondering when the hell this all got complicated, and maybe I'm just praying for him to leave so that I can start anew and actually do something worthwhile with my life. Maybe I'm right to be fuckin' angry with him for making me start over like this. Maybe –

"Well, I think that's the last of it, Roger," Maureen whispers, suddenly standing beside me as she tosses him his digital clock that had been sitting on his floor for…God, how many years now?

I wish Maureen and Joanne would go away. Why the hell do they have to ruin this for me? But then, I remember it was my idea to go and wake them up and pester them, so it's my fault they're here. No one to blame but yourself, smart guy – you fucking idiot.

He catches it with a smile, checking the time with a sort of haze in his eyes. Maybe he realizes how important a little clock was, too. "Thanks, guys… I guess that's about it then, huh?"

I feel the tears, threatening to break through the dam and send a flood cascading down my cheeks, but I hold them back, biting frantically at my tongue to divert the pain elsewhere, letting my gaze wander to where the sun should be – the beautiful sun covered by a fogginess that would only come today, accompanied by thunder clouds that loom with ferocity.

"Well, honey, we'll miss you," Joanne begins, hugging him tightly enough to wring the very air from his lungs. "You know you're welcome at our place anytime, and I hope you'll take me up on that offer."

His smile is sad but at the same time beautiful as he wraps his arms around her. "Thank you for everything. I'll come back again. It's not like I'm going away forever or anything." He smirks, moving to Maureen. 

Before he knows what to do, she throws her arms around him, kissing him – deeply – on the lips, her fingers twining through his hair. I hold back a chuckle at this, shaking my head as Roger tenses, trying to pull away with no success. Maureen will always be Maureen. Letting him go, he kind of wavers there with an adorable blush on his face. "Sorry, Roger," she whispers, tears falling down her cheeks. "But, it's your last day. I mean, how could I live with myself if I didn't do that?"

Joanne growls, pulling her away. "You said you were gonna give him a kiss _on the cheek_!"

"Sorry, pookie, but you know how carried away I get…" She sniffles, wrapping her arms around Joanne's waist and burying her head in the larger woman's chest. "I'm gonna miss him!" She sobs frantically, and again, I shake my head – drama queen 'til the bitter end.

A drop of rain falls, and then, another. I look at the man standing before me, and we're both at a loss for words. Does he know how much I'll miss him? Does he care? I sense that he's as hurt as I am: a thought, which, until now, never occurred to me. He's always been the rock, and I was always the stem that bent to the wind's whim. Rocks don't bend, I remind myself. Why then, does it appear to me now that he's holding back tears, as well? Maybe he knows that he's never coming back. It's not like it's a secret, no matter what lies he tells us all.

"So…" he laughs, biting his lower lip and rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, averting his gaze from me.

I smile a bit, pushing my glasses up and running my fingers through my long tresses, letting my own glance fall to my feet, clad in the same worn-out tennis shoes that I've had for the past seven years or so. "Yeah…" The situation is comical, really, if you think about it – ironic, too, perhaps, but comical to the very last. "So, you gonna hug me, or what? I don't have all day, y'know…" I look up with a tiny smirk playing at my lips as I see his smile – that gorgeous, friendly Roger Davis smile that I've known for so long.

"Yeah, I know." He's the first to make a move. Reaching out, his hands come to rest first on my shoulders as he pulls me close and then around my back, holding me tightly against his body. "I'm gonna miss you, Mark…"

Closing my eyes, I fall into a world all of my own, throwing my arms around him and falling against the warmth that is his body heat, and amazingly enough, I'm not crying yet, even as I bury my head in his shoulder, breathing in his scent: that glorious aroma that reminds me of every day ever spent with him. I remember when we were just kids; when he wore that huge leather jacket with silver zippers and chains adorning it; when I wore tight jeans and tucked-in sweatshirts that my mother laid out for me. I remember when we first moved into the loft; when Benny was still one of our closest friends; when Allison was just a name, and we'd never feared Mr. Grey's influence; when Maureen and I were still dating, sleeping in the same bed night after night; when Collins was still alive – and perfectly healthy – and had no idea he was HIV-positive; and when April was still with us, and she and Roger were sleeping in the same bed just a room away, entwined in bliss. I remember when things started to get complicated; when April died and Roger was diagnosed; when the mere mention of the name Joanne Jefferson would make me go into hysterics, wondering what I'd done to make Maureen a lesbian; when Collins met Angel and Angel made us who we are now; when Benny married Allison and moved out, demanding the rent as if he were God, renting out our lives for a percentage monthly; and when I began to realize that I was, and would always be, alone. I remember the friends who started to disappear and those who I knew would always remain, despite the changing seasons; April – the first to go and the only to do so by her own hand; Angel – who left us with so much more than we could've asked for; and Collins – who was the only person to ever openly admit he loved me, without asking it in return…

Struggling for breath, I wonder if Roger is the next to follow in the seemingly endless chain of deaths that surround me. Someday, I remind myself, I will truly be all alone, and I won't have anyone to turn to. Clutching Roger even tighter, I feel the tears burning lines down my scarlet cheeks, an empty void filling my stomach. "You don't have to go…" I mutter softly, pulling back just a bit, but still holding onto him.

He seems to shiver a bit looking at me and he's holding back tears – I can see them glistening in his eyes with every blink. "I do, Mark. You know I can't stay."

"Why the hell not?" My voice raises, and I notice Joanne and Maureen slinking off, probably embarrassed for me, because even I know I'm going to make an ass out of myself. "You've never been clear on why you're always running off."

"Because I'm fuckin' scared, Mark," he bites out angrily. "Okay?"

I reach up, brushing away a strand of hair from his eyes, relishing in the feel of his skin briefly coming into contact with my own. "Scared of what?" My voice is surprisingly controlled and mellow.

He doesn't move away like I thought he would. He only stares at me as I allow my fingers to trail over his temple with a featherlike touch. Before I can do anything else, his hand snatches my wrist roughly and he holds it before his face, glaring at me. "Scared of you."

"Of…me?" I ask, helplessly wincing from the grip he has on my fragile limb.

"Of what I'd do if I stayed with you."

I falter, blinking in shock. "Wh-what?" I manage to breathe out, swallowing the lump that has wedged itself in my throat. "What would you…?" my voice trails off quietly. I can't even think of a coherent response to him. Immediately I know it must be a dream. Yes, a horrible, horrible dream for him to say that to me when he knows he's leaving for good. "If that's the reason you're leaving, then fuck you, Roger." 

His eyes sadden a bit, then narrow in anger. "No, fuck you… It took a lot of fuckin' courage for me to say that."

"Yeah, but you don't mean it. You wouldn't leave if you thought there was something between us. You didn't leave April, and you didn't leave Mimi. So, why the hell is different with me?"

"_You're a man_, damn it!" he cries furiously, shoving me away. "How do you think it makes me feel when I look at you and I tremble?"

"Maybe the same way _I_ feel?" I offer crossly. "Goddamn it, Roger… I love you. I don't want you to leave because I love you."

"I don't care," he growls, walking to his car.

I race after him, grabbing his shoulders to spin him around to face me. "I know you don't care, but I'm not you. So to hell with it all – if you leave, I'll still love you. It's not going to go away like some –"  
"I'm _sick_, Mark!" he shouts, interrupting me. "I've got a few more months before I'll be dead, okay? So, don't fucking treat me like I'm a fucking invalid anymore. I'm so fucking sick of this bullshit. I came back here thinking maybe things had changed; maybe Collins' death gave you something besides pain and more confusion, but I see that it hasn't, so there's no reason for me to stay. You get it now, Mark?" He moves forward, wiping irately at the tears on his face. "Or are you still as fucking clueless as before?"  
I stumble back a few steps, enraged. How can he say these things to me? "You're just scared, so you're pushing the weight of life onto my shoulders like you always do. Well, I'm not gonna take it anymore, Roger. You're sick – yes, we all know! Deal with it! Don't think I'm just going to be your little toy once more. Don't make it so that it looks like it's my fault you're leaving, because it's not. I _want_ you to stay, so this won't burden me for once!"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Mark! Don't turn this around on me, either."

We both stop, almost at the same time, as I feel more rain, suddenly covering me with its wetness. I look down, sighing. "Look, you've got to go, and we're getting nowhere here, so why don't you just drive off already?"

He turns away, drips of water floating around him as he bangs his fists onto the back of the car, his whole carriage drooping as he drops his head slowly. "I hate this… Fuck it all… I've got to go, Mark. If I don't, I'll waste the rest of my life here. New York has eaten me whole and devoured me…" He shakes his head to clear it of water, but still the rain falls, drenching him in it as he turns to face me, eyes red with tears that mix on his face. "I can't stay, but why can't you leave?" 

I look up, queasiness saturating me. "Why…what?"

"Come with me to Santa Fe, Mark. Don't let New York kill you like it's killed me…"

I swallow, breathing erratically as I feel my palms sweating, even as the cool water rushes over me. Through the blurry haze on my glasses, I can still see him, standing there like the statue I was before, only this time, he's bared himself to me – his emotions are laid out on a table and he offers them to me with that simple question. So, why can't I?

The question is one I've pondered ever since his first trip to Santa Fe, but I've never come up with a reliable answer that satisfies both head and heart; they're so different, the two sides jousting over my body, wringing answers out of me, when I know that –

"_Stop thinking_, Mark," Roger snaps, closing the distance between us with a single stride. "If you think about it, we'll be here all day. Don't reflect – just answer."

I nod, lowering my gaze to the ground. "If I answer now, you're not gonna like it."

He sighs, body almost limp again. "You're not coming, are you?" He groans, shoving me away roughly. "Sometimes I hate you so much Mark! You never do anything for yourself, you know! You just sit there and reflect over every Goddamn thing that happens to you! You dissect and pick apart and observe and obsess and scrutinize and examine and analyze and study and everything but what you need to do – _see_." He pulls my chin up, forcing my eyes to his. "You lose sight of what really matters when you put things under that fuckin' microscope of yours, and it makes me sick to realize that you'll survive long after I've gone because of that. But, you know what's worse? You'll have never lived a fucking day in your miserable life, Mark. You'll have regrets piled up in the back of your mind. You'll regret not coming with me."

"I've tried to –"

"You'll regret pushing me away like this."

"I've never even –"

"You'll regret spending your whole damn life behind that stupid camera!" his voice rises.

"You know, I'm not the one who –"

"And you'll fucking regret being so naïve about everything. You'll regret watching me die and not helping me."

As I open my mouth to retort something just as righteous back at him, I find my mouth is dry. The drips of rain pound against my face as it contorts to sadness. The tears have dried, but I can still feel the places they left their marks on my raw flesh. I think maybe for once, Roger is right-on in his accusations. And yet, I'm still thinking. "Look, Roger, I've tried to help you, but you don't seem to want my help. I've done everything I can. It's your own fault now. Once you leave, you do realize you'll have no one to blame this on but yourself, don't you?" I scowl at him. "God forbid you have to take responsibility for your own actions."

He stares at me for a moment, and I can almost sense his fear and the breaking of his own heart by my words. "This whole thing is fucked up," he whispers, turning away and walking towards the driver's side. "Thanks for at least considering," he continues sarcastically. "I guess I'll see ya 'round."

"Roger…" I dependently follow, still attached to the leash he holds on my heart. "I _want_ to come."

"Then come," he retorts, not even bothering to turn around.

"I can't."

"Then don't." He shrugs. "Forget I ever asked, okay? Have a nice life," he turns halfway, glaring, "—alone."

I fold my arms, backing away. "Y'know, you're going to be alone, too. It's not just me who suffers from this bullshit!"

"Thanks for the reminder. I'm sure my last months alive will be filled with nothing but pain then, right?" He gets in the car, slamming the door. 

I wipe the cascading waterfall of rain off my features, tearing the glasses off my face so that I can see him. "That's not what I meant… I don't want you to go, Roger. Please, don't go. I'm sorry, okay?" He starts the car, and I attempt to yell over the noise and through the closed window, "_I'm sorry_!"

"Good. Great." He turns a little, rolling down the window. "I'll call."

I reach out to take his face his my hands and he shrugs me away. Whimpering, I back up a step, wrapping my arms around myself and feeling my body shiver roughly in the wetness and cold that shrouds me. "I'm gonna miss you…"

He lowers his head, bowing it and letting his eyes close, as if in pain. "Yeah…" He grips the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles almost white as he clenches his jaw, trying to hide the pain, but it's so much more visible this way. "Bye," he chokes out, his voice cracking slightly. His eyes opening, the window rolls up and the car begins to slowly move away.

I watch, spellbound by the finality of it all. Roger's going away, leaving forever. So lethargically, he leaves me, not even offering a glance in the rear view mirror as the tiny Bug rides off in the rain that sweeps across me forcefully, smacking against my bear face. Sobbing quietly, I turn away, noticing Maureen and Joanne are still there, just ducking underneath an overhang on the façade of the building, arms and bodies entwined in a gentle hug that I envy immediately. Lips trembling, I race away from them – I can't stand to face those two who are so happily in love, knowing they know everything about me now – towards…Hell, I don't know where! I'm so fucking confused by all this… I want to run back to him and just jump in the car and ride away to Santa Fe, forget my troubles and live in utter bliss.

A crash of lightning clears the dark sky for a moment, splitting it in two distinct halves, both red and yellow with electric energy, and my heart pounds frantically out of time. Clutching my chest, I bend over, leaning against the sidewall of the loft, erratic heartbeats swelling to a definite crescendo in my head, pounding like the rustic ticking of a booming clock, showering me with the wild and desperate need for him, only moments after he's gone, and somewhere in the back of my head, I hear his voice, so distinct and handsome that it sends explicit chills to play upon my spine, as he whispers, _'I can't stay, but why can't you leave?'_ The words haunt me, taunting my soul with such regrets as I imagine living the remainder of my life by his side, as I've _always_ envisioned growing old. I'd never thought I'd be the one to end what I'd always wanted over something so stupid as the past; because that's why I can't go – New York has beaten me: just like it killed Roger, it is killing me, and I know now that I'll never survive it… _Never_…

The courage fills me now as I think about what's going to happen to me…. I jump up; fumbling to race around the corner, back to where April's car hopefully still stands, back to my musician – my Roger… Stumbling on slipping feet, I run smack into another body, falling down hard, staring up into those dark eyes that implore me. Propping myself up slightly, sitting on my rear and just gazing upwards at that beautiful face, I swallow, offering a feeble smile. "You…you didn't leave?"

Roger shakes his head, offering his hand to help me up and I take it. "No. I didn't leave."

That's all I need to hear. The words themselves hold little meaning, but hidden behind it is a depth that Roger shows no one – he has proven that he does care, despite his head's protests. "Why not?"

He smiles just slightly enough to let me see it, before pushing me against the wall with his palm against my chest, holding me still as my eyes widen. "I couldn't leave without doing this." And he kisses me.

It's not a gentle kiss and it's not a kiss that bonds us – it's a kiss that is hungered and passionate, making up for all the other times, the lost times, that we could have done this but never took that final step forward. It's not smooth or tender – it's smoldering and stimulating, causing my knees to weaken and pallid lids to fall to a desperate close, lashes fluttering to rest on scarlet flushed cheeks; arms wrapping around his neck, one of my hands pulling him ever closer to get every last inch of him in my needy mouth that suddenly aches for more as my lithe fingertips twine in those luscious silken locks, caressing the sensitive skin at the back of his neck. The length of his body presses up against me and I hear his own fraught moan as he pushes himself up on me, causing more than a few loud whimpers from my own throat. Years of bottled up emotions are shined upon in full light as the rain floods over our already drenched bodies and I feel his hand at the waistband of my pants. Arching myself towards him, I manage to push away a bit, fighting his hands to the side, almost sharply shoving them off of me. "Jesus, Roger…" I whisper hoarsely, trying to break free, but he persists, hot lips trailing a fiery path down my skin to suck against the dripping flesh of my Adam's apple. "Stop it…" 

"No," he murmurs against my throat. "Come with me…" he continues as I feel his tongue against me.

"I c-can't…" I shift positions, eyes opening in a half-mast expression that is written as lust, despite my words. He doesn't listen, swallowing my protests with a groin-tightening kiss that again shoves me back up against the wall, making my head spin. My arms drop limply to either side as I let him move me like the broken chess piece I am. Everything feels so good – better than the dream – but I know why he does it, and I can't accept it like this. So, I tear out of that harsh grasp, breathing ferociously as I glare at him from the safe distance of two steps away. "I said – _stop_."

He licks his lips, eyes lowering in a bit of red embarrassment as he tries to manage his own panting. Shaking his head, he's the first to waver, running his hands through his saturated hair. "What the fuck do you want from me, Mark? I want you to come and… Yes, there, I've said it. I _need_ you to come with me." He looks up, urgently searching my face for the reply he so craves.

I whimper, my throat tightening with held back words that I long to say, but I can't allow him to do this to me. "No matter what, I'm alone." No, this isn't what I want to say. Just say 'Yes, I'll come with you!', you fucking idiot! What the hell is the matter with you, Cohen, you moron? "If I go with you, I'll be happy for a short period until you leave me, for whatever reason – albeit death or change of heart, which you so often have, Roger; don't deny it – and then I'll be so depressed that I won't be able to go on. At least this way, I'll know _I'm_ the one making the choice."

"You'll regret it," he whispers, his voice so soft and condemning I can barely hear him.

"At least it's my decision."

"Fuck your decision."

I move forward, pulling him into a hug. "I love you…."

"Fuck off!" he cries, trying to push away weakly. "Goddamn you…" Whimpering, he falls against me, clutching me as if he can't let go, and somewhere in the back of my mind I know he can't. It's the last ounce of the past he's hanging onto – that one little string of hope that tightens and frays in his horrid grasp. "I hate that I love you…"

I nod against him, sighing heavily. "I know." Pulling away, despite his holding on, I shrug. "You know it's better this way. Hell, even I know it, Roger." I smile a bit; that cock-eyed grin he must know so well.

"I know…" He wipes his eyes with a laugh. "I feel like this is a damned soap opera, Mark – some idiotic book that people read for fucking amusement and here I am crying my eyes out like a child…like –"

"Me?" I offer with a short chuckle. He nods as I continue. "I guess the cliché thing to say here would be that we both need to start a new chapter in the book, huh?"

His smile is genuine. "No; it would be that this chapter of our lives is closing."

I nod, feeling tears slip out of my eyes. "So, you'd better leave for real this time. I don't think either of us can take another comeback…"

He sighs as his shoulders droop sadly. "I don't want to go, but I don't want to stay either."

"I know what you mean… But, I think I'm going back to Scarsdale for a bit."

"What?! Are you nuts?"

I nod swiftly. "Maybe… There are some demons I have to face there… You know, the usual monsters under the bed that I need to clean out."

"Your mom will be happy."

"Yeah…"

"What about your dad?"

I frown, sniffing in the tears. "I'm not sure how to face him. I've changed now; I can feel it. Even when you told me I'd changed, I never believed it, but I can _feel_ it inside me – this fire that's telling me to face every fear I've ever hidden from, and I don't intend to cower in horror this time."

He smiles brightly as I realize the rain has let up just slightly. "When the hell did you get so brave, Mark Cohen?"

I shrug, not blushing for once at the open compliment on my sudden courage. "I don't know." I pause shortly, staring at him. "And I'm not going to wonder either. It's there, so let it be. Fuck reflections." I laugh lightly, taking his hand and squeezing it, knowing it's the last time I'll feel this warmth; the last time I'll have this intimacy with Roger.

That night, sitting alone in the loft, I let my gaze wander to the picture walls, perusing the endless array of vivid images, mentally noting how I haven't added anything new for months. I smile gently, reminding myself of when things were less complicated – when Maureen and I were dating. Yeah, it strikes me as odd how thinking of Maureen would _calm_ me at a time like this, but it does, because, at that time, I had it all figured out. I knew I was going to be a famous filmmaker. I knew I was going to marry Maureen and we'd have kids by the time I could drink (legally, that is). I knew that Roger and I would be best friends always and that we'd end up being roommates forever, despite my wife's surefire protests. Life was so much easier when I seemed to know everything. Now that I realize how little I know, I'm desperate for answers, incomplete as I begin to understand there aren't any to some of the tough subjects I ponder.

The phone rings, and I cock my head, allowing myself to study it. Jesus, when did I buy a new phone? I race over to it, picking it up before the machine gets it. "Hello?"

"Hi Mark. Wait… You're answering the phone now?"

I smile. Toby's voice brings my reveries to a halt. I haven't talked to him for a while now, since he's been taking college courses in filming and directing. He's also interning at NBC. "I didn't do it purposely." I shrug. "Complete and utter accident."

"That's so unlike you."

I laugh lightly. "So, what'd you want?"

"Just calling to invite you to dinner tonight."

"No flow, kid," I reply quietly. "The money tree is bare."

"My treat?" he offers; I know it's accompanied by a hopeful smile.

"Miss Jacqueline coming, as well?"

"Nope."

My eyes narrow slightly. "What are you up to, Toby?"  
I hear him snickering. "Nuttin' honey."

I pause, thinking it over. Well, I was planning on staying home and regretting letting Roger go, but what the hell… I sigh, bowing my head. "What time?"

6:00 sharp, I walk up to the Life Café, shrugging my jacket onto my shoulders a bit more, realizing dimly that I've left my scarf. Stopping at the door, I bite my lip, wondering if I should go back and get it. Somehow, I feel naked without it… But, screw it. I'm only here for a bit anyway, and it's a short walk in not-at-all-cold weather, so what would be the point?

Sulking in, still feeling incomplete without the scarf, I notice Toby immediately and ignore the waiters who try and stop me from entering without checking with them first. "Hey there," I say, watching him fumble to stand.

"Long time no see."

I smile. "Your fault, not mine."

"I know, I know. Don't berate me, Mark."

We embrace loosely. "Aw, gonna ruin my fun, are you?" I pull away, taking the seat across from him and making a face at his new look, which consists of black and…well, black. "What's with the new threads, guru?"

He looks down, checking himself with a short laugh, shrugging as his eyes rise to mine. "I dunno… I like black; what can I say?"

I nod, ordering tea from a passing waitress. "Thanks," I murmur.

"Oh come on, Mark! I'm paying, and all you order is tea?" He leans forward a bit, all seriousness now. "Roger's going away must be taking its toll."

I shoot him a glare. "Don't start, Toby…"

"Start what? I'm curious; so sue me."

"One call to Joanne could do just that," I retort, smirking halfway.

He sighs, letting his frame go semi-limp in the chair as he leans back, sipping on some kind of dark liquid. "Okay, so you're telling me all's well in the world of Mark and Roger?"

I shrug, leaning back as well. "Define 'well'."

"Mark…"

I shake my head, clearing my throat. "What? It's not as if you really care, Toby."

"How can you say that? You know I care."

"Why didn't you come to say goodbye then?" My eyes implore, searching his features for some kind of answer.

"I couldn't get off, Mark… NBC doesn't give me just any old hour off, y'know."

"Why don't you quit that useless job?" I muse aloud, twirling a napkin in my fingers. "It doesn't give you any experience for what you want to do."

"That useless job pays for my college tuition." His eyes narrow slightly. "How does working at a publicly recognized and award-winning television station not give me experience for watching directors at work and seeing how films are made?"

"Whoa, slow down… I didn't mean to initiate a fight."

He sighs. "I'm stressed. I know." After a short pause, in which my tea is delivered, he continues. "So, since I couldn't be there, give me all the details."

I sip at it, stirring with a spoon absently. "We hugged, cried, yelled, berated, kissed, cried some more, screamed –"

"K-kissed?" he spits some of that liquid at me while stuttering it out.

I nod, not bothering to look up. "Yeah. So then, we –"

"Hold on… What's with the kiss? Did I miss something? I mean, you're…" He pauses, studying me with suddenly wide eyes. "I should've seen it. I mean, you're into art, you've been best friends with Roger since you were young, and you went into relapses whenever he left you because you're –"

"Don't say it," I snap, eyes fiery. "I'm not. So, don't."

"So you didn't kiss him, then?"  
I shrug, face flushing no matter what I try to do. "He kissed me, if you're really that interested in the groggy details…"

He smirks. "Groggy? No, something tells me it was anything but."

"Shut up."

"Come on Mark… I don't see you for…well, for forever, and now you're holding back?" He smiles, tossing a sugar packet at my face.

I hold back a giggle as it hits me on the nose. Tossing it back, marveling at my bad aim, which sends it to a man two tables down, I nod. "Well, what do you want to know?"

"Did you like it?"

I freeze. But then I think…what the hell does it matter now? Fuck it. "Yeah. I did."

"Mark," he begins quietly, "I didn't know you were –"

"_I'm not_," I retort, interrupting him again before he says what I don't want to hear. "Trust me." I take another – long – drink of the tea. "I wonder if they still make those Long Island teas here…" I ponder aloud, accidentally.

He grimaces, making some gross gestures that make it obvious he thinks Long Island iced teas are disgusting. "Don't joke like that!" He laughs lightly.

I don't smile, looking around and noting for once the changes made in the old café. I guess I never wanted to see that they put up new wallpaper and re-furnished some of the seats near the bar. I make a face, wondering what else I've missed recently…

"You're serious…?" Toby continues, seriously concerned as I turn towards him. "Since when do you drink?"  
I shrug. "I promised I wouldn't do it anymore."

He quirks a brow. "Wait…what have I missed?"

I smile. "If you wouldn't have gone away to college, you might be in on all the little mishap adventures that go on at the loft, but since you've been gone, you don't get to hear all the tidbits and stories."

"Hardy-har-har, Mark…" He sighs. "I'm learning a lot about you all of a sudden."

I nod. "That's a good thing, right?" We both pause, and I listen to the sounds around me – the clinking of silverware, the clicking of high-heeled boots against the floor, the chatter of aimless minds at tables not far away, the simmering of vegi-burgers on the grill… "So, why dinner?" I finally ask.

A smile appeared on his face, brightening his whole appearance. "I have good news."

I lean on my elbows on the table, gesturing him on. "Oh, do tell."

"I just got a great job offer – one for you, too." My eyes widen slightly. I wasn't expecting that, but y'know, more power to him. He's a good, smart kid – I shouldn't be surprised he'd start to be hounded after by little companies for his work. But why for me as well? What would anyone want from both of us? "From a friend of yours, amazingly enough."

My smile matches his. "Wow, that's wonderful. Wait…a friend of mine?" I cock my head to the side, taking a sip of my tea.

"Yeah," he continues happily. "Benny called me the other day to –"

"Benny!" I gag on the tea, wheezing as it goes down the wrong pipe. Swallowing hurriedly, I manage to choke out, "What the hell does he want from _you_?"

Toby's eyes narrow a bit. "You're not happy for me?" He watches me like a hawk, and I suddenly realize how much he's changed.

"Well…" I cough a bit, holding my chest while trying to battle the water in my lungs. "To be perfectly honest, no."

"Ben said you'd be skeptical."  
I shoot him an angered face. "What else did _Ben-Ben_ say?"

He groans, fiddling with the glass in front of him. "You shouldn't be so hard on him, Mark. He's a really nice guy, once you get to know him. Maybe if you'd just take the time to –"

"To what?" I nearly shout. Noting the glances from others in the café, I lower my voice to a hushed whisper, leaning forward for the full effect. "I was fuckin' best friends with the guy for years, y'know." Toby rolls his eyes, turning away a bit, folding his arms. I shake my head distantly, comprehending what's missing – something in Toby is gone now, and I can see this void in him: the same void that's in Roger, and the same void that's in myself… I stand up slowly, frowning gently as I move to walk away. "Tell Ben that I'm not remotely interested in whatever deals he has to offer this time. You go have fun and watch him suck the life out of you, too."

"Mark!" he calls after me, jumping up to my side, making me want to reassure myself on my condemning of him, because at this moment, he's like that little puppy he was when we first met. "Where are you going?"

"I'm moving out of the loft," I reply, shocked by my own words. When the hell did I plan this? Hell…I didn't…

"What?!" he cries, eyes wide in surprise. "Why?"  
"I'm going back to Scarsdale."

"Why?" Oh suddenly he's interested?

"To see my family."

He nods swiftly. "That should be nice."

"Yeah, I'm sure my father's looking forward to it," I scoff, shaking my head.

"Should he not be?"  
I look strangely at Toby now, wondering if I've ever explained about my family. No, it strikes me as normal that I haven't. We were never close enough for me to do so, were we? Why tell a stranger your deepest fears and secrets? I shrug, almost smiling at the irony of it all – I'm here with someone who's not even close to a best friend, and I've let the love of my life go three thousand miles away! I start to laugh, mechanically at first and then more relaxed, as I realize what an idiot I am. What a foolish, foolish moron you are Cohen. "Good luck with your career," I remark, turning to leave.

"Hey, where are you going?" he calls after me.

I shrug. "I gotta move out before I think too much into a split-second decision that was years in the making." I walk out, ignoring Toby's pleas for me to stay and talk. Racing down towards the loft, I notice the construction on our—_my_ block, where the pavement is being destroyed, uplifted, and changed for the better. Goddamn it, what _isn't_ changing now? I hear Roger's voice in my head as he pleaded with me last night to talk, and now Toby's voice that just begged me to stay and talk. I don't want to talk. I don't want to think. I don't want to stay here in this city. I just don't want… "Maureen?" my voice cracks.

She stands before me, those doe-eyes blinking in the innocence I used to find so captivating and illustrious, but which now seem to have little to no effect on me. She smiles sadly, twisting the bottom of her tie-dyed, skin-tight t-shirt almost nervously, but with a sense of impatience, as if she's been waiting long for this. "Can we talk?"

I nod, slipping into old habits, like when I used to come at her beck and call. "Sure." I gesture towards the loft, wondering what could posess such an appearance after earlier today. Oh shit… How much do you wanna bet, Cohen, that she wants to talk about Roger and you? I sigh, wondering how long a night this'll be.

_"Thought I'm weak like I can't believe_

_So you tell me 'trust me' I can trust you; just let me show you_

_But I gotta work it out in a shadow of doubt 'cause I don't know if I know you_

_Doing fine but don't waste my time; tell me what it is you want to say_

_You sin, you win, just let me in – hurry; I've been out in the rain all day_

_So you tell me 'trust me' I can trust you as far as I can throw you_

_And I'm trying to get out of a shadow of doubt 'cause I don't know if I know you_

_Don't tell me you wanted me – don't tell me you thought of me_

_I won't, I swear I won't (Did)_

_I'll try, I swear I'll try (Lie)"_

_ _

Sitting across from Maureen at the old rusted folding table, I cross my legs, watching her squirm in the chair like she wants to get up and move. Really; why is she here? To talk about Roger and I seems the most _and_ least likely of answers. She just doesn't seem the type that'd be so interested in hearing about how Roger and I got to be the way we are—_were_. Then again, she's always been the little chatterbox of a gossip, so maybe she just needs some more scraps of scandal to hold her over for a while – always hungry for rumors, aren't we, Maureen? In any rate, it makes me a bit uncomfortable to know that she sought me out before I got the chance to do the same to her. I mean, given another hour, I would've been pounding down her door to bawl my eyes out…or would I? And where is Joanne, I do wonder?

"So…" I begin with a small forced smile. "What brings you to my humble abode, milady?"

Her smile is actually kind, and I am in awe of the simple beauty a smile can hold – I've never seen her face that pretty. "Don't slip into formality with me, Marky," she coos, her whole appearance changing before I even got used to it. "Just wanted to chat."

I lean back, nodding. "Okay… So chat away."

"I never knew, Mark."

"Knew what?"

"That you were into guys." She grins, leaning on her elbows on the table, giving me that famous stare that I find draws me in again.

"I'm not," I reply softly, almost a whisper, trying (that's definitely the key word here) to avert my eyes from that baby doll façade.

She laughs, shaking her head, and I watch, as the wavy tendrils of her hair seem to dance before me. "Joanne and I were there, honey; we saw the whole thing unfolding. I mean, it was hard _not_ to look with the way you two were acting." She bites her lip gingerly in that playful manner that lights her eyes up. "It was damn hot."

I groan, bowing my head, trying to get rid of my blush. "Shut up, Maureen…"

"Aw, what's the matter, Marky?" She reaches across the table, pinching my cheek. "You always were adorable when you blushed."

I jerk free of her grabby fingers, rubbing my crimson cheek. "What exactly did you want to talk about?"

"You mean, you don't want to talk about this?" Her eyes dance.

"No."

"Why not?" she feigns a pout – excellently.

"Why would I ever discuss my personal life with you?" I ask, raising my eyebrow inquisitively.

She straightens, her face saddening as she pushes out her bottom lip, making it quiver. I stifle a growl at her – God, she's doing it to me again… "Well, I'm hurt… I thought I'd be the one you'd run to in a time like this."

My face is a bit angry now. "In a time like _what_?"

"Don't put on that pretense with me, Mark Cohen!" she berates, pointing a finger at me, huffing a bit. "I can see right through you."

I shrug, faking confusion. "What pretense would that be, darling?"

"Don't you darling me…"

I sigh. "Look, what do you want? Do you want me to say I'm in love with Roger? That I'm gay? That I've been in love with him for as long as I can remember? Or what?"

Her face becomes normal again as she stares at me, smirking gently, almost pleasantly. "All of the above."

"Oh fuck!" I cry, dropping my head onto the table with a bang that makes me regret that action immediately. I quickly cover my head with my arms, encasing my features in a dark tomb, so she can't see them.

"Aw, it's not so bad as that," she whispers. I hear the chair squeak and then the gentle pressure of her arm lying across my back, rubbing soothing caresses there. "I can teach you a thing or two about same-sex relationships," she giggles, prying my arms away and turning my face to her, as I'm helpless to resist. "Besides, you and Roger make sense. I've always seen it – especially when I went to see your movies. You bare your every self on the screen for those agonizing minutes, and sometimes I think you're so brave for doing that."

My eyes tighten in bewilderment. Why is she being like this? I sit up slightly, but notice her hands are still holding my face quite gently – tenderness I'm falling into, like a hopeless void: she's molding me like the bowl of Jell-O I am. "Really?"

She smiles, running her fingers through my hair, tousling it a bit in the process. "Really."

I'm rendered speechless for a few moments, while I collect what thoughts stray through my mind. Then, I lean back; slipping out of her touch, I realize the blush has only doubled on my cheeks. "So, why are you here? To talk about what happened earlier or to compliment me?"

"A little bit of both… And, to tell you that if you need me, I'm here." She lays her hand on mine, and my eyes are drawn to the contact immediately.

"W-Why would I –"

"I know what it's like to lose someone you really love, Mark. Don't hold back if you need to talk or think aloud or…cry."

I jerk my hand free, fumbling to my feet. "I'm _not_ going to cry."

"Why not?" she asks, puzzled.

I shoot her a glare. "Why not!?" I scoff. "_Why_?"

She stands up, gazing at me with concerned eyes. "Sometimes it's worse to sit there and not let it all out."

My brow furrows angrily. "Since when did you become an expert on emotional restraint?"

The corners of her lips lift to form a sarcastic smile. "Pushing your sadness into insults, hm? First stage is denial, my dear."

I roll my eyes, throwing my arms in the air out of pure disgust. "Denial of what?!"

"That you miss him." She pokes my chest, her whole face becoming one big mockery of me. "Don't tell me you don't want to cry your eyes out." She smirks, pinching my stomach. "You're beginning to sound like Roger."

"Am not," I whimper between laughs as the prodding turns to tickling. Shoving her hands away, I jump back, wrapping my arms around myself to ward off any further onslaughts. "Now stop that," I demand weakly, eyeing her from a few safe steps away. "If you want to be serious, be serious. If not, don't. I can't stand this back and forth crap."

She wrinkles her nose most unattractively, sauntering towards me with this gleam of seduction in her eyes and I soon find my back against the wall as she stands directly before me. "With the way you're acting, anyone else would assume that you don't even miss him."

"And you don't buy that, I take it?" I ask tentatively, scrunching my whole form up against the wall, trying to weasel my way back farther, despite the fact that I know I can't. "Besides, 'anyone else' is wrong."

"So you're admitting you're lonely?"

"I've never denied that," I retort, swallowing as she presses up against me. "I mean…I-I've always been lonely. Everyone knows that…"

"But you're broken, now that Roger's gone," she states, matter-of-factly, as if she couldn't care less about my answer. Her eyes are almost sad as they meet mine. "Talk to me."

I feel the tears, pricking their way to the fronts of my eyes, but I clench my jaw, setting myself up for more repression. "About what?"

Her shoulders droop as she shakes her head. "About Roger. When you ran off and then Roger followed you around the corner, Joanne and I peeked to see if you two were okay, and –"

"You didn't!" My eyes grow wide.

"Yes, we saw the whole thing, and by that I mean _everything_." She curls a lock of my hair in her slender finger, twirling it with a smile. "I thought he was gonna jump you right then and there."

I push her away swiftly, fixing my hair as I make a loud noise of revulsion. "Not everything is about sex, Maureen."

"Aw, I was just kidding with you, Mark." She laughs, touching my shoulder. "I'm very serious about you talking it through with me, though. I couldn't be more genuine about that."

"Again, I have to ask…_talk about what_?" I rage, spinning around to face her. "I'm fine! Do you not understand that? _I'm fine_! F-I-N-E."

"So that's why you're screaming at me?" she continues calmly, placing her hand on her hip nonchalantly.

I sigh, dropping into the folding chair. "I'm not screaming at you."

"You _were_." She smirks, sitting beside me. "Come on, Mark… It's not everyday I drop the façade and ask you to share your most intimate feelings, so take me up on this offer before you explode."

I groan. "I'm just…I'm not in the mood to talk today, okay? It's not that I don't want to; it's just that I can't."

"Why not?"

"If I talk about it, I'll get sad and regretful and hopelessly miserably depressed, and as much as I know you'd like to see me bawl my eyes out on your shoulder, I'm not in the mood for another regression."

"It doesn't have to be like that." She cocks her head thoughtfully. "We used to talk."

"Not about…well, not about anything like this." I sigh, my eyes tiring as I rub them. "Maureen, we used to talk about what kind of popcorn to buy at the movies – not what do you do when the only person who's ever loved you walks out on you."

She nods. "We can start talking about that now, can't we?"

I look up, starting to shake my head to deny her any answer at all besides the negative gesture, but I stop cold – that look in her eyes is one I haven't seen for a long time. I saw it when April died. I saw it when Angel died. I saw it, even in my delusional state-of-mind, when Collins died. I even saw it, flickering just slightly below the surface, when Roger left this morning. It's that tiny shimmer of light that shines just out of anyone's reach. It's that minuscule glimmer of love and sympathy that you see so little of in Maureen's bright eyes on any normal occasion. It's there when she feels something for someone else; when she puts aside her own misfortunes and gives every piece of herself to those who need her most. It's there when she shoves her pride away and comforts those in need, even though she may be experiencing her own sort of tragedy. I'm almost rendered speechless by that expression.

"Don't look so shocked, Mark," she continues with a smile. "How many times a day do people tell you to stop thinking?"

I release a breath of air, disguised as a sort of half-laugh. "Too many?"

"So, take their advice." She again lays her hand on my shoulder. "Just talk to me."

The tears come of their own accord, without my even having to will them free of their restraints, and they cascade swiftly like a raging waterfall down my scarlet cheeks. My eyes, already puffy from all the sobbing and whining from the past few days – hell, all my life – become red and blurry as I fall into her suddenly glorious embrace. Her arms close in around me as we sort of fumble off the chairs to the floor, where I find solace in arms that once repulsed me and words that never had been uttered to my deprived ears. "God, Maureen… I love him. I fuckin' love him," I whisper between the tears, burying my face in her chest, my arms falling limp at my sides.

"Shh, I know, honey," she replies just as softly, fingers combing through my hair in a massage-like manner that I have missed so much since we used to date. "Just tell me, why didn't you go with him? He was all but begging you…"

"He did beg… Fuck, Maureen, he pleaded and he cried against my shoulder… But I just… I don't know why, but I can't – I couldn't…" I look up into her eyes, wrapping my arms loosely around her. "Why didn't he stay?"

She smiles sadly, fingertips sweeping stray tears away with a ghosting touch that sends chills down my spine. "Same reason, maybe?"

I frown, resting my head against her shoulder, eyes dancing with water. "Why can't I go to Santa Fe?" I ponder aloud, not really expecting any sort of answer from her. "Why the fuck can't I leave?"

She caresses my back gently, a forefinger tracing my spine. "Maybe you're scared."

I open my mouth to retort something, but nothing is spoken by me – instead a sob breaks through. Sniffling, I clutch her warm body against mine. "Everyone is scared."

"You're scared to be happy."

"What?" I cry, breaking our embrace to look up at her with wide eyes. "That's not even –"

"Don't even say it, Mark. You know it's true. You used to tell me what your father did to you and your mother; then, along came me, and I broke your heart; then, here comes Angel and you finally find someone who lives life like you want to, and she is taken away; then Collins tells you he loves you as he dies in your arms; and now, you find the one person you are destined to cherish for the rest of your life and you ruin it purposely, just because you're afraid to lose him."

I push her away, shouting, "That's not why I –"

"Yes, it is, Mark!" she continues, grabbing my arm to halt me in place. "He's dying."

"Fuck you. You don't –"

"He's _dying_, Mark," she whispers as her solemn eyes hold mine in a horribly somber stare. "And you can't stand it." I freeze in place, my whole body trembling in unspoken grief. Fuck her. What does she know? "You're afraid to move to Santa Fe, because Roger is there."

"That's ridiculous!" I cry, tearing my gaze away from her, looking anywhere but straight at her. "You're wrong."

"No, I'm not. For once, I'm completely in the right. Look, if there's one thing I know a lot about, Mark, it's love and romance. I know you better than most people do. Roger knows you better, but I still understand how that mind of yours works – how you push everything on yourself when things go astray. You love Roger, but you can't stand the fact that he'll leave you forever when AIDS catches up with him."

"Fuck –"

"You don't want to be loved and left like that again, do you, Mark? You don't want to watch him fade away, when he was once so strong, right? You don't want to see his own body beat him and kill him, slowly and deliberately. It's the truth, and you know it."

I fumble for words, tearing away from her to stand up to my feet. "Y'know what? It doesn't even fucking matter anymore, Maureen. We talked. There, are you happy? You and I connected! So, go off back to Joanne and try to work your psychology bullshit on her, okay? Because, I've fucking had enough of it." I pause to catch my breath. "You're wrong. I can't tell you how wrong you are, but you are… I'm afraid of so much, but not that."

She stands up as well, looking at me with that condescending glare. "Fine. Then tell me why you didn't go with him."

I turn away, unable to answer and bow my head. "I don't know." I pause for a moment and then glance back at her. "I'm moving out tomorrow…"

"What?"

"I'm taking a trip back home to Scarsdale. I think it'll be good for me."

"Good for you? Fuck, Mark, you know that'll only screw you up further!"

"I didn't tell you because I needed to be scolded, Maureen," I growl. "I just wanted to let you know that I won't be coming back…at least, not to the loft."

She rolls her eyes. "That's right. Run away from your problems. That'll solve everything."

I walk towards the bedroom. "I gotta get things packed. I would demand you leave, but you never listen to me anyway." I slam the door behind me, locking it and falling down to the floor to weed through my clothes, reaching over to drag out a suitcase. Tomorrow, I'll never have to think of these memories again. Tomorrow, everything will be okay. Tomorrow…


	7. When Tomorrow Becomes Yesterday

***Lyrics are from Ani Difranco's _Falling Is Like This. Yes, I finally managed to put a closer on this epic RENT-fic. I'm quite frankly as amazed as you are, because I took about a year's time off for school purposes, and God help me, I'm moving onto college this fall! ::gasp:: 'lil Tiara's growing up. Anyways, enjoy. I'm glad I could finally finish it._

P.S. Sorry about spelling errors. x___o;; I'm so damn lazy.***

            Here I am. I find myself, once again, in a car that's going nowhere and everywhere all at once. My camera in hand - after a relapse that seems so long - I seem to find it strange that all my life I've chosen to stay behind and sit idly by while things happen around me. I'm a wallflower, sitting while life passes me by. But now, the moment it takes the most courage to return to the place I fear the most, I am sitting in the passenger seat of a beat-up, 1980 Ford Taurus with Toby, riding along to a future unknown and a past that's probably best forgotten. I find myself daydreaming, caressing the smooth, black plastic of this machine in my calcium-deprived fingers as if it were something alive...and maybe it is.

            The radio is playing. You know that song Camera One? It's rather ironic, too, I guess, that I'm listening to a song that parallels film to actual reality. There's so much reality in life, though, so it shouldn't be as odd as people think. That's what I've always tried to do with my films, but I've never quite succeeded. Even when I did Confessions and I thought I'd made my statement and closed the curtain on that chapter of my life, it wasn't enough. It never will be enough.

            Toby's talking. He's been telling me that Roger's sick...even worse than when I last saw him, and he wants me to reply -- that's why he keeps glancing over my way at intervals of three and two. Silly, silly... Silly to think everything would have frozen just the way it was until I got the balls to return. I've barely been away and everything's changed. Toby has changed, too. Can you see it? The way he brightens up when I smile at him, the way he's driving so assuredly without a backward glance -- like he knows the city so well.

            And it's Christmas. How unbelievably cliché of me to return on such an important day for Roger...for me. Like that's going to make everything better. Merry Christmas, Roger -- I love you, don't you love me? Now we can be together forever! Gag me.

Turning the camera out the window, I ignore Toby's voice for the moment. He's got to understand that I just need...thinking time. Yes, we're back to thinking -- Mark Cohen's biggest enemy. I'm thinking how it was really stupid of me to tell off my dad like that; thinking how it was also very brave of me; thinking maybe I can finally be proud of myself for acting on a whim, for saying what I felt and living in the moment -- Carpe fucking Diem; thinking how I'm making a film without even meaning to, how the camera has a life of its own once its placed in my able hands again; how Toby is silent finally, staring ahead as we enter the city; thinking how...thinking how...

            "Oh damn it," I curse. Toby quirks a brow at me, as if to ask what my problem is. "I'm out of film."

            "I've got some in the glove compartment -- never without it." He beams.

            "When the hell did you get so smart?" I quip with a laugh, finding the film easily and beginning to load my camera.

            "I dunno...the moment you left?"

            "Hardy-har-har."

            "So what are you going to say to him?"

            "Him? Who? Oh..._him." I sigh, placing my film carefully in the container of his for safety. "I'm sorry? Or how about I'm home?"_

            "I think he'd like to hear that."

            I smile, getting a few good shots of the city as we enter. "So, where have you been staying?"

            "NYU."

            "You're still in? I thought you didn't like it there."

            "I don't...but my parents are paying."

            I laugh lightly, turning my camera on him, sizing up the familiar childish face in my lens. "Close on Toby -- his life is shit, just like mine, but somehow he gets money to boot."

            His face flushes slightly red. "Mark..."

            "Mark thinks Toby could stay with Roger, if he wanted." I peer around from the lens and offer a cock-eyed smile. "It is still your place, too, y'know."

            "No, he's not even living there because of Benny, and --"

            "Ah-ha! The root of the problem is always Benny. Well, fuck Benny. And that's on the record."

            "You're a good friend, Mark."

            I shrug and turn the camera back to the city. "I know."

            The city has changed...again. No matter how much I want it to be the same -- to see the same homeless ladies waltzing down the streets like they own the place; the same gangs with their red bandanas on the same corner as always selling the same Tommy watches as always; the same little children playing in the streets, rolling a snowball into its proper size -- I know things have got to move on. It's not like the moment I leave things are going to freeze for me; at least, not freeze in time, because it's fucking cold here right now. 

            I had Toby drop me off at the Life Cafe and promised him he's welcome at the loft...until I remembered that Roger doesn't live at the loft anymore. He lives in a run-down apartment only a few blocks away, Toby said. He's living in poverty because he refuses to write, claiming he's too sick.

            I sigh as Toby drives away. I promise I'll call him once I find somewhere to settle in, and he says he'll smuggle me into the dormitories if I can't find anywhere. I had to smile at that as the snow twinkles from the waning night sky. Christmas is so much different in the city.

            Looking at the faded sign for the Cafe, my smile seems to widen. As much as the specials of the day -- Tofu Soup and Vegetarian Steak -- sound delicious and heart-warming (not to mention cheap), I force myself to look at the dark windows and black interior. They're closed. Of course they're closed -- it's Christmas.

            I look at the address in my hand and sigh. There's so many things I want to tell Roger, but I'm still so afraid... One thing comes to mind though: I'm here, I'm queer -- get used to it. The slogan somehow fits my life now, isn't that odd? Collins would be proud of his protégé.

            Walking down the snow-covered streets of Alphabet City, I feel the wind so roughly beating against my face and gusts of snow blanket my glasses more than a few times. Wearing my faded scarf and old plaid jacket, it seems to me that I'm in dire need of new clothes. What a thought to have while going to pronounce my love for a dead man.

            "Hey mista'," comes a voice to my right and I feel myself tugged a little ways into an alley. "Got a dolla'?"

            "No, sorry... All out," I reply with a frown. It's a little kid. He can't be more than six years old, and he's out here begging for money from a man who's as broke as he is cold. He's bundled in layers and layers of clothes, arms wrapped around him to keep out the chill, but I'm sure even that is a poor substitute for a good indoor heating system. "Actually," I confess with a soft smile. "I have a candy bar. You can have that, if you'd like." I reach into my coat pocket to produce an age-old Snickers bar.

            "It's prolly poison," the kid snaps, appraising the chocolate bar carefully before he snatches it from my hands, ungratefully tearing it open without so much as a thanks. His silence signals that the moment of pleasant conversation we shared is over, so I walk on.

            The streets are changed, somehow – brighter than they were when I lived here. There are more lights around to keep the streets safe, and the crack heads have moved to new corners. Even the absence of litter surprises me.

            I turn the corner, looking down at the address one last time, though I already have it memorized. The apartment building I approach is rank with sweat and the putrid smell of sex. I nearly gag as the plethora of cheap perfumes from various whores waft through my nostrils, tingling them with the bitter pinch of the odors. It's probably designer stuff that was sold on the black market for ten cents a bottle. What a deal.

            The door to the apartment building itself is unlocked, and I'm thankful. I want my first words to Roger to be face-to-face. I want to see his reaction when he tells me to fuck off and go home to mummy and daddy. I want to see the bitter tears recoil from his bright eyes as he tries in vain not to hug me, not to smile at the sight of my porcelain-pale visage; white from lack of sunlight and outdoor activities – locking myself in a room for over a year will do that to me, I suppose.

            Ascending the creaking staircase, I shudder with fear. I doubt these flimsy wooden steps will even hold two people at a time, and with the many doors I pass walking down the hallway, I realize that occupants probably have to take turns going up or down so the wood doesn't crack underneath them. I find that Roger's apartment number, 15B, is the very last one on this floor, on the right-hand side. I step up, admiring the sign on the door that says, 'Go away – you're not welcome here.' Cute, Rog. Real cute.

            Despite the growing knot that's tying itself in my stomach, making quite a comfortable home there, I raise my trembling fist bravely and rap a few times at the door. No answer. I knock again, a little louder. Again, no answer. Of all the possible scenarios that I concocted on the way here about meeting with Roger again, his not being here was not one of them.

            "Roger, it's me, Mark, are you there?" Still, I receive silence as my reply, but I place my ear against the door and hear a rustling of clothes and the soft clinging of glass bottles. "Roger, come on…" I plead. "You've got to be in there." Sighing, I try the doorknob and find that it's open. Frowning as the knot grinds into my diaphragm, I turn the knob.

            "No! Don't!" comes the frenzied cry from inside. "Don't you dare open the door, Mark!"

            His voice is so gruff and hoarse that I take an automatic step back. I can almost hear the malice in his voice, taste the constriction of his throat when he tries to talk. "Why not?" I ask meekly. Fuck, I'm terrified.

            "You didn't answer any of my letters. Why the hell did you think I'd let you in?"

            "I never got any of the letters, Rog… My father….he –"

            "Fuck you. Go away."

            I rush up to the door and turn the knob again, frantically trying to get in. There's something terribly wrong with him, and as much as I don't want to know what it is, I have to know. Morbid curiosity? No, more like I love the man with all my heart and I want to help him. "Roger, I'm coming in." As I push the door open, my jaw drops and my eyes widen. I can't believe that it's him. His hair is matted down to his forehead, plastered with sweat, even though it's a chilling temperature inside his place. I bet he doesn't even have heat. His clothes are all but hanging off of his too-thin frame, and there are huge bags under his eyes, making it look like his skin is turning black. He's backing away, avoiding eye-contact, stumbling into empty beer bottles and vodka bottles that are thrown about his floor. There's heroine shots littered about the table; no containers of AZT in sight. "Roger…?" I ask, half-hoping that this isn't him. This is his new roommate who's a druggie and an alcoholic. This isn't the Roger Davis who used to look so strong, who used to lift me up in the air and spin me around over his head just to prove he could, who used to arm wrestle with Benny and Collins and win out every time… "Roger, are you –"

            "I said go away!" he snaps, pointing to the door with his whole arm that quivers furiously. "I poured my fucking heart out in those letters, you bastard! And you didn't even have the decency to fucking send me a fucking postcard? Fuck you!"

            I can feel the tears biting at the backs of my eyelids, and I bite down – hard – on my lower lip to keep it from shivering like the rest of me. "Roger, please… Let me explain it. My father –"

            "Enough about your fucking father! I don't fucking care if he –" Interrupting his angry sentiments, he erupts into a fit of heaving coughs, falling to his knees and shivering all over. Even from where I stand, I can see the sweat rolling off his face, wetting the hairs on his head further.

            For a long moment, I'm speechless and unmovable as stone. My heart swells with worry and the tears are fought back as usual. He's dying. Everyone tried to tell me he was getting closer and closer. Everyone warned me that I would be screwing things up if I didn't go with him to Santa Fe, if I went off and hid myself in Scarsdale. And I have. I've botched things up so badly that I can't even move over to him and hold him, wipe the sweat off his face or try to get him help. I just stand here, trying hard not to cry, and finding that even if I wanted to, my eyes are parched and burning. My knees tremble weakly underneath my weight, and I reach out, as if to go and get him. "Rog…"

            "Fuck….off…." he manages to breathe out, his words so far apart that it's barely a sentence anymore.

            Ignoring the way every step is another dagger in my heart, I race forward and fall at my knees beside him, wrapping my arms around his drenched form. "Jesus fucking Christ, Roger… You're soaked!" I look around desperately for a phone but find none. "Where's your phone? Let me call a doctor."

            "Fuck off," he snaps again, more clearly this time, as he swats my caring hands away.

            "Shut up and let me get you some help," I argue, pulling him easily up to his feet and dragging him back to where I'm assuming the bedroom is. "How long has it been since you've taken your AZT?"

            "You have no fucking right to –"

            "Stop being so goddamn self-righteous and answer me!"

            He sighs in my arms as I lay him on the bed, shoving all the beer bottles off first. "There's no phone. I sold it."

            "Sold it?"

            "You fucking heard me, Mark…." He coughs, his whole body shivering, even as I wrap him in blankets. "I needed the money."

            "Jesus," I mutter. "What about the AZT? I can tell you haven't been taking it, or else you'd –"

            "AZT only numbs the pain, Mark," he retorts angrily. "It's not like it was helping any… I was still in pain whenever I forgot one, I was still getting sick and lightheaded from them, and I sure as hell wasn't progressing any healthier because of them. So fuck them."

            "So you're killing yourself? Is that it?"  
            "May as well die knowing that I've ended it…not some fucking hospital."

            "Roger!" I snap, groaning. "Fuck that. I'm going to go find and phone and get you help." I start to move from the bed but he suddenly grabs my wrist and holds me still with a surprising amount of strength.

            "Don't…" he pleads, his eyes imploring. "I don't want to go back there… I hate the smell of hospitals… I hate the tubes in my arms, and I hate how they look at me, Mark. Please…just let me end this my way."

            I can feel the tears stinging again, and my face contorts in pain as I place my cool palm against his frozen cheek. "Fuck, Roger… I would've come back sooner if I'd have –"

            "I know…"

            "I mean, you know I didn't mean to –"

            "I know, Mark."

            I pause, stroking his deathly pale cheek with my fingertips and his hand falls freely from its grip around my wrist. "Please let me call someone, Rog… I'll get you help. I'll find a way to pay for it, too. You won't even have to worry at all. I've got old films I can sell. I'll find a way… I promise."

            "You're only delaying the inevitable Mark," he whispers, his eyes so sad and lost that it breaks my heart. "No matter what, I'm going to die. Soon."

            "How soon?" I ask, my voice trembling, despite my attempts to control it.

            "A few months, tops."

            "Did the doctors tell you that?" I gulp.

            "Yes… But I don't need them to tell me when I'm going to die. I can feel it, Mark. You have no idea the pain."

            My frown seems to grow at his words; words that I know are true in his heart, although he has no idea _my pain and how it festers to think he's slipping from my easy grasp. If only I could have kept my head on straight and gone with him to Santa Fe, or if he could have stuffed his pride away long enough to stay in the loft with me, then none of this would have happened. I would have nagged him night and day to take his AZT, to stay clean off of the drugs, to stop drinking, and to just love me like I loved him. That's all we needed back then; love. Right now, he needs a good doctor, and he's not going to be willing to do that because of his fear of what they'll do to him. I still remember the images of Collins, Angel, and Mimi in the hospitals – it's no wonder none of the remaining gang likes to go in those places._

            Sighing, I wrap my arms around him without another thought and pull him up against me. "I know the pain, Roger," I answer, kissing his cheek with no second thoughts, no horrors of thinking how he might respond. "Believe me…I know the pain."

            "Mark…"

            "I don't want to watch you die," I snap, almost angrily. "I came back because I was worried and I wanted to see you again, and I hated the person I became living with my parents again. I came back to see you and to live with you again and to love you." His cold hands cling to my back, his cheek against mine – both pale now. One warm, one clammy. "I'm not going to sit here and do nothing. I know the hospital isn't your favorite place –" his fingers cling tighter, "–but I won't let you just kill yourself because you don't want a good needle in your arm."

            "I can't, Mark. You know I can't go there." His lips ghost across the shell of my ear, and I melt. Even when he's so damn cold, he makes my entire body hot. "Please don't take me there."

            My eyes close, lashes trembling against my cheeks. I can feel his every muscle against mine, and I wish I would have come home sooner, so that I could enjoy it. Pulling away, I settle him down against the mattress and move away.

            His eyes are wide and he reaches forward. "Mark, don't—"

            "I'm not leaving. Don't worry." 

"Wait!" he cries, and I turn to look at him, waiting as directed.

            "Merry Christmas, Mark."

            "Merry Christmas, Roger." With a forced smile, I retreat from his bedroom, running my hands through my already-sweaty hair, wondering where the hell he keeps the bottles of AZT.

            He's asleep now. I've been filming him this way for months, and he looks terrible. Every day, his luscious hair gets thinner, his bright eyes grow duller, his tan features slither paler, and his strength is corrupted to nothingness. I can still remember that day in the Life Café…where I remarked how handsome he was to myself, and where we ran our fingers through each other's long locks to make sure they were really real. How we had embraced there, carefree and lively, without a momentary care in the world, as if life, as we knew it, had been put on hold to remember a friendship that would never, at that moment, die. It's dying now. _He's dying._

            You know something? I feel damned guilty. Looking at him lying in this crap-ass bed, his face so peaceful, my fingers running through his chilled and soaked tendrils gently, I want him to stay like this forever. This is peace for him, the sleep that he loves. And not just that either… It's the fact that I want him to stay sick because this is the only way he'll let me love him; this is the only way we can understand one another enough to know that tomorrow may not be an option, so wasting any moment is not feasible, nor do we want to take such a risk ever again. Hours become precious when life and death are concerned, and we cling desperately to a hope that life will win in this ultimate battle.

            And I…his best friend, solace, and now lover…I want him to remain sick so I can have that sort of fucking stability. What the hell kind of sick shit wants that for the person he loves more than life itself?

            I'm so pathetic that it pains me to think about it. I'm pacing, wandering around his room, wondering where the fuck I can take him to ease his pain instead of leaving him here to die to appease my own insecurities. I love him, though. One can be sure of that much; I love Roger Davis.

            And these past few months he has loved me too. There's this unspoken warmth between us, flowing from our fingers when we touch them together, when I try to soothe the wounds I know bear him agony. There's a softness in the way he whimpers my name in the dark of the night when I'm curled up in his arms. There's a tender loneliness in the way he moves inside of me. And there's sensuality in the way we've kissed; love in the way he moves me.

            It sounds disgusting, doesn't it? That now I can say freely that we have kissed. And that we've made love; even when I know it could give me the disease that haunts him in his final days.

            It wasn't everything I had wanted and it was nothing he wanted, I'm sure of it. So we kissed, we held one another, and we lay sweating in each others' arms until he fell asleep against me. But I didn't sleep that night. I sobbed.

            Like a pathetic baby whose lollipop was stolen, I cried into his hair, careful to quiet my sounds of mourning so that I didn't rouse him from perfect slumber. It was a loss of some sort and a gaining as well. Though we've made love since and things have become easier, his body cannot take the way he moves in me, and though we both long for it, we know it cannot be. In a way…the trauma of our first time together was the way I wanted it to be the next several times, for when it became too easy, his body wilted away on me, and neither of us wanted it to be like that. I didn't want him to wheeze when I sucked against his skin, and I didn't want his face to go blue when we kissed for long moments in frozen time. We wanted it to end and it did.

            And now… Where am I? Where are we, Roger? What has this done to us, if but made us stronger? If only I could comprehend the song you keep telling me you need to write. I'd hold your guitar in my able hands and pluck the melody on every string until you told me it was right. I'd write it for you, if I knew I could. I know you hear it. I know you do, Roger…

            "So, how is he?"

            "Doing well, actually. He's just sleeping in late today, I guess." I shrug, holding a warm cup of coffee in my cold hands, bundled in scarves and coats galore. It's cold in September. "Better than expected, I'm sure." God damn it…why does my voice always betray me? And these fucking hands of mine won't stop trembling. He notices. Toby has come to notice the little things.

            Smiling gently, Toby refills my cup to the bubbling point. "I want to know the truth, Mark. I usually except your sugar-coated lies, but right now, I'm really concerned about him."

            "He's fine," I snap, looking down at the warmth inside this little white cup. With a sigh, I relent a bit. "Do you want me to tell you he's dying or what?" Silence. I hate fucking silence. "Well…?"

            "I just want to hear the truth, Mark," he says, sympathy and tenderness overflowing from his lips. It's like this every Sunday morning. Toby visits for the weekly checkup, offers to get Roger help, offers to pay the rent here so we can have heat to keep him well, offers his soul up for the taking. It's not that I blame him for worrying. Shit, I worry enough for us all, so couldn't he just lay off for now? It's already October, and I've kept him alive since last December, right? I can keep him alive longer than that. And I will. I have to. "Mark…?"

            I look up and smile softly. "He's sick, Toby. Nothing's changed since last Sunday. Things are shitty, I can't afford the rent, no one's buying my films, I had to ask my mother for money to buy food… Things are just the way they are. Can't we leave it at that?"

            "I can pay for your heating and rent, Mark," he offers; such sincerity in his young voice. I believe in that sincerity, too…the care he takes with us. "I can even get him a good hospital, if he wants it."

            "No, Toby."

            "Why not?"

            "We discuss this every week, you know."

            "And you never give me a good answer, you know. If he's dying and you don't want him to, you need to take precautions. This freezing cold shithouse isn't good for his condition and you know it. The landlords are getting antsy, and I'm sick of having to sneak up here to see you just so they'll think you aren't home. If you love him like you say you do, you'll start giving a shit about his wellbeing."

            Taking a long drink of the coffee, I inhale the aroma, ignoring the words that break my heart. The thing is…Roger wants to die, and sometimes, as much as I love him, I want him to have that final peace. He's in such pain sometimes that death might be better for him. The wheezing, the heart failures, the fatigue, the muscle aches…they'd all go away forever. The thought of losing Roger, though; that breaks my heart to pieces. I can't ever lose him.

            "Mark? Are you listening to me?"

            "Yeah." I nod solemnly. "I'm listening."

            "Well, say something then," he demands, half-angrily. "I'm tired of caring so much about you two while you sit there and plan his death."

            "I'm not planning his death… He doesn't want a hospital, Toby. Hospitals haven't ever helped him in the past, so what's another clinic gonna do besides screw him over? Fuck their bullshit, alright? Roger will be fine." That's it…lie to yourself.

            "Mark…"

            I stand up and force a smile. "You should get going. The landlord will be up and awake any minute now."

            "How is he?"

            Shrugging, I force a smile, even though Joanne can't see it over the phone. It's October and I'm feeling fine; won't let myself cry. "He's doing okay, Jo. He'll be better in no time. He's started taking his AZT and the coughing fits have gone down, as has his temperature."

            "That's good to hear, Mark. I hope he pulls through…for your sake."

            "He will," I choke out. He has to."

            "I know, hon. Let me bring you by some soup and –"

            "Make sure to do it after midnight," I say with a soft voice. "The landlord has been asking around about us."

            She sighs. "I'll come around one. Until then, send Roger my love."

            A true smile graces my lips. "He appreciates it, I know he does."

            "How is he?"

            I sigh, hearing that for the fiftieth fucking time. It's November, but as much as the months have changed, it seems my friends haven't. "He's getting worse, Maureen," I answer truthfully as she runs her fingers through my hair. "A lot worse."

            "Wanna talk about it, hon?" she whispers silkily, wrapping her arms around me.

            "No," I reply. "No, I don't want to talk about it."

            "Mark, this is Benny."

            As my jaw hits the table and my eyes widen in surprise, I choke on the words 'shitface' and hang up. It's December and my life is hell. "Fucking asshole," I murmur under my breath staring at the phone, glancing quietly from the inanimate object to Roger's room, where I hear coughing and wheezing. I wait, and soon, I've picked it up and dialed Benny's number.

            "Why'd you hang up, Mark?"

            "Nice to talk to you too, Benny."

            "I wanted to offer some condolences…in the form of dollar bills."

            "If that's all you wanted, I'm hanging up."

            "And, you didn't let me finish, to tell you that I'm sorry." He pauses, and I can almost hear his heart breaking. "I'm really sorry."

            I nod. "You should be." I wait for the inevitable question, and like clockwork, it comes.

            "How is he?"

            I can't reply. Staring at my shaking hands, I start to hang up, but an impulse comes over me and I start to sob.

            "Mark…?"

            Sniffling back the tears, I croak out words that I can't imagine why I say. "I'm inviting everyone over for New Year's Eve. Come over."

            "How is he, Mark?"

            I sob hysterically, clinging to Toby the moment he walks through the door. "Please…help me get him help…"

            His eyes are so sad as he looks into mine and he just smiles so tenderly, patting my tousled hair down. "I'm right here for you, Mark, and I'll get you the help you need."

            "Just Roger… I'm fine, Toby; just get Roger help…please…"

_I'm sorry I can't help you, _

_I cannot keep you safe_

_I'm sorry I can't help myself,_

_ So don't look at me that way_

_We can't fight gravity on a planet that insists_

_That love is like falling_

_And falling is like this._

            New Year's Eve couldn't look bleaker. Roger and I sit side-by-side on the floor, Roger leaning against my side like a flower leans to sunlight, his fingers twined in mine. The doctors told us not to exert any energy with him, to be gentle and let him rest until well past Valentine's, but it's fucking New Year's Eve, and we both agreed he was not going to be forced to be a vegetable, especially when all his friends are here for him.

            Maureen sits across from me, nestled in Joanne's lap, a bright smile on her face – so fake that I want to vomit – and a wine glass in her delicate fingertips. Joanne's arm is around her waist, holding her close, and every once in a while I catch a glimpse of Joanne's teeth nibbling at her neck and ear playfully. Such love stifles the melancholy mind. Roger's fingers tighten in mine as he feels me tensing, and I squeeze back to tell him all is okay.

            Toby and Jacqueline sit between the lesbians and the gays to my right and Benny sits alone with the candles and cake to my left; a large circle of friends and former-enemies. Of course, Allison couldn't make it. Probably fucking thought AIDS was contagious, the bitch.

            "How are you feeling, Rog?" Maureen asks with that smile of hers. "We brought you lots of wine, so if you're down, you can always use that to perk you back up. Either that, or I do lapdances after a few drinks; free of charge."

            Roger laughs and smiles at her, but then the wheezing starts up and I shoot Maureen a glare of warning, telling her to either knock off the lame jokes or get the hell out of our newly-heated apartment. She shrinks against Joanne, the two ladies exchanging concerned looks. Roger clutches my arm and I hold out the white towel to his lips as he coughs into it. Pulling the cloth away, I set it aside, catching a wide-eyed stare from Benny as I do so. I shoot him a glare too, but he motions to the towel, and I glance, my own eyes widening at the obvious blood spots on the white linen.

            It's okay…this has happened before, and he was okay as long as he took some more of the medication the doctor gave us. I excuse myself, kissing Roger's sweat-damp forehead, to go find some more of those horse pills, so big that Roger nearly always chokes on them. My hands shake so hard as I open the bottle that I spill the contents all over the sink, some of them slithering their way down the drain before I can scramble for them. Fuck! Those stupid things are expensive!

            "Mark, calm down," Roger whispers, his hands around my waist, leaning his front against my back and soothing my worry for the moment. "I'm fine."

            "I got worried. Sue me."

            "Does Joanne do pro bono?"

            I smile at his soft joke, turning in his arms and holding him close to me. "I can't help I worry… What else can I do, Rog?"

            "Come out and drink wine with us, that's what." He coughs into the bloody towel and I grimace, remembering why I came in here in the first place.

            "Take one of these, huh?" I ask, holding up one of the ugliest brown pills I've ever seen in my entire life. "Please?" Stroking his cheek as his coughing calms down, I place the pill in his mouth and hand him a glass of water, helping his quivering hands to hold it so he can drink, spilling most of the transparent liquid on his shirt, causing me to frown heavily as he swallows it finally. I lean forward, pressing a kiss to his lips. "Maybe you should go back and lay down for a bit? I mean…you can always come back out later, when your lungs settle and you've stopped coughing, but –"

            "Mark, I told you I was going to make it through today…"

            I nod. "I know, Rog. Let's get back out there then, lover." Smiling, I lead him back out into the so-called party, whose faces have fallen longer than I've ever seen. Tears are in their eyes. What? Did they expect a happy New Year's party? They should've known better.

            The whole thing happens suddenly. I feel like I'm moving in slow-motion as I guide Roger back to our spot on the floor where we're supposed to sit, all the party smiling at us like paper dolls. But not a moment later, Roger's eyes glaze and he collapses against me with a soft moan. Instantly, I'm on the floor, cradling him in my arms, Maureen and Joanne and Benny and Toby and Jacqueline all gathered around, offering help, but I can't hear any of them, their voices numb in my head. I tell them to back off and give him room, turning Roger in my arms so he can look up at me, and damn it all to hell if my own eyes aren't full of water. He's gone… Fuck, no!

            Sitting him up slightly, I brush those thin hairs away from his beautiful face and grab the cold rag Toby hands me, dabbing at the sweat that I barely noticed before. "Rog…?" I plead.

            "…I can't…breathe…" he moans, voice so stressed and pulled that I'm gasping for air myself, as if I can feel how hard it is to do what should be natural. "…M-Mark!"

            Distressed, I grasp his hand tightly and he closes his eyes against me, chest heaving once or twice. "I'm right here, Roger… I'm not going anywhere, I promise." Smoothing his hair, I look up to see that Maureen is on the phone, calling the hospitals, no doubt, and she gives me a worried look, sniffling and stumbling over her words. "We're all right here…" I'm choking, too, drowning on the words that feel like chiseled stone in my throat.

            He gurgles a reply, coughing into a raging fit once more, the blood gushing out of his throat and onto my fingertips as I try to stop it. Tears roll down his cheeks, out of tightly-shut lids that shudder with the rest of his body against me, and the crimson stains my pale fingertips. I coo softly into his ear, swearing up and down how much I love him, how much I need him to be here with me…just a little while longer. "Just a little while longer, Rog… C'mon… God, don't die," I plead. "I don't…. I mean I can't…"

            "I know," he murmurs softly, his fingers clutching mine desperately as he chokes on the blood.

            "The ambulance will be a few minutes, but they're on their way," Maureen informs us, kneeling and dabbing at the blood.

            I look up, almost half-surprised to see Benny frowning, tears in his eyes. "I'll pay, Mark. Don't even worry about it," he says, and I couldn't love him more for it.

            Nodding is all I can do as Roger quivers in my arms, blood everywhere on my clothes and skin, but I don't care. I just want Roger to stop dying…I just want him to live in peace, to stop feeling so sick and so helpless. I want both of us to be able to love again, to hold each other again, and to lose ourselves in the kisses that tasted so sweet once upon a time. I'm crying now, Joanne soothing my shoulder, rubbing and massaging at it as I feel the weight double in my arms…dead weight. Limp in my arms is the only person I could ever truly love, the man who made me feel loved and wanted and needed. He's not moving and I can't feel a breath. My face set in stone, I realize he's dead.

            "Mark, do you want to say a few words…?" the priest asks gently. No one here is religious, but hell…he's got to have a good funeral.

            Standing in the corner of the crowd, in the very back, I shake my head, shivering all over. "Yeah." God, is that my voice? I sound like shit.

            Making my way up to the small podium in the front, next to the closed casket with flowers and ribbons atop it, guitar picks and sheet music strewn about, I choke on the words; a quivering mess of hatred and sadness am I.

            "There's not much more to…to say about Roger," I whisper, eyes downcast to study the wet grass around my feet. "I loved him. More than I've ever loved anyone in my entire life, and when he told me he loved me…I knew he meant it. I…I guess I'm supposed to say that I remember the good times, right? That someday when I die, I'll be with him again, and that everyone needs to stop and smell the roses before it's too late? That's all such bullshit." I hear gasps and audible whisperings about my sanity, but if they want me to speak, they're going to hear it, whether or not they care. "I'm not religious. I don't believe in God or Heaven or even Hell. I'm supposed to be Jewish, but I don't celebrate the holidays, and Christmas is merely a time for gifts from the heart… So, I don't really think he's in Heaven or Hell or anywhere like that. All I know is…he was a good person. He was hard to get to, that's for sure… I mean, his heart was always so shut-up and locked, and it took me, his best friend, years to really open it up again. He opened it for April and Mimi and Collins, maybe a little for Angel because we all loved her so, but that's it. When he finally opened it up to me…I don't know what that feeling was like or how to describe it." I smile softly, wrapping my arms around myself to keep out the sudden chill. "It's love; pure and simple. But nothing about our love was simple… I umm…I wanted to read something of Roger's…because I think it was his best song ever, and…and it always makes me think of him. So…here goes." Taking out the small piece of paper on which I scribbled the lyrics I know I heart, I begin to read, my voice breaking, trembling with agony as I realize the words are meant for everyone – not just Mimi. "Your eyes, as we said our goodbyes…can't get them out of my mind…and I find…I can't hide from your eyes; the ones…that took me by surprise...the night you came into my life." I choke, quivering and losing it altogether. "Where there's moonlight…I see your eyes…" Breaking down into tears, I cover my face and sob. I can't stand this! He can't fucking be gone!

            "How'd I let you slip away, when I'm longing so to hold you?" The voice is silky-smooth, a beautiful mezzo-soprano, and an arm around my shoulders accompanies the singing gesture. It's Maureen.

            "Now I'd die for one more day, 'cause there's something I should've told you," adds Joanne with the softest of smiles, gathering up against my other side. Her voice is not so beautiful, but it touches me like nothing ever has.

            And before I know it, the remaining gang – Benny, Maureen, Joanne, and even the newest member, Toby – are singing Roger's words. I smile softly, tears streaming down my cheeks as I try to hit the notes, letting them go on like Roger would have wanted. The small audience of friends looks astonished, and for the first time in a long while, Roger's mother smiles.

            "Yes, there's something I should've told you…when I looked into your eyes. Why does distance make us wise? You were the song all along, and before the song dies… I should tell you, I should tell you… I have always loved you." All of smile fondly at the breath we all take simultaneously, and I can't believe how my heart swells to sing the last line. "You can see it in my eyes."

            Silence like none other washes over me, Roger's casket is lowered into the ground, and I cry against Maureen's shoulder, holding her tight as other arms enfold me – Benny, Toby, Maureen…and other arms that I can't even recognize. Life as I knew it has changed. Those I loved most have passed away, the only man I could ever care for is dead, but I feel so much love right here… The warmth of arms entwined and bodies swaying in the chill of the winter is comforting, and I cry harder at this. I swear I can hear the faint notes of Musetta's Waltz…the ending to Roger's most beautiful and touching song, Your Eyes. It was written for Mimi, yes, but the notes cascade over my trembling body, through the mass of tangled arms and crying eyes, to piece my heart like it did when I first heard it. 

            I should tell you…I love you, Roger; and I always will.

            The movie reel flicks to an end.


End file.
